A Partial Old Friend
by ChocolateIsMyDrug
Summary: From 'Emma'. A series of drabbles following Emma and Mr. Knightley's relationship almost from the beginning. Rated T for later chapters.
1. Adorable

**A/N:** Everyone who writes _Emma_ fic has to go through imagining and writing out her pre-novel friendship with Mr. Knightley, right? So here's my version; I'll be posting it as a series of drabbles. Hope you like, and please review!

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**A Partial Old Friend**

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*

'Mr. Knightley!' He heard the delighted shriek before he saw her, a little whirlwind of bouncing curls, flying skirts and trailing ribbons, and then–

'Oof!' He laughed as he picked up in his arms the little figure who had run headlong into his legs. 'And how are you, my little Emma?'

He saw the three-year-old scrunch up her forehead as she searched her memory for the correct response. 'I am quite well,' she said slowly, after some time, and he tried to hide his smile. Then she looked at him reproachfully, her small pink lips pursed into a pout. 'Why haven't you visited me for so long?'

He gently tugged on one of her curls. 'You know I was at Oxford, little Emma.'

She looked up at him, large hazel eyes very serious. 'It sounds like a perfectly horrid place,' she said firmly.

His eyebrows raised themselves slightly. 'Why do you say that?'

She rested her head against his shoulder and slipped her arms around his neck. 'Because it takes you away from me,' she said simply. 'I missed you, Mr. Knightley.'

His heart melted.

He had always thought Emma the most adorable child he had ever seen. But then he was a partial old friend.

*


	2. Unimaginable

**A/N:** You might detect some influences from the new mini-series in this one; it made me think about some aspects of the story of _Emma_ which I'd never considered before. But I think the series was very faithful to the book, maybe not in preserving all the dialogue verbatim, but by preserving the spirit and essence of the novel and its characters.

Please review, and tell me what you think!

*

At the funeral, her sister was sobbing and her father's eyes were filled with tears, but she was silent and her eyes were dry. Some might have thought that she was too young to understand what was happening, but he knew better. Looking into those hazel eyes, huge and dark with sorrow, he saw something more than the vulnerability of a lost child. He saw the little soul, who, wise beyond her four years, had realised that her life would never be the same again.

He thought of other Highbury children whose fates had suddenly changed; he thought of young Frank Weston, sent away to Yorkshire two years ago right after his mother's death; he thought of little Jane Fairfax whose aunt and grandmother had only recently been forced to send her away when they could no longer afford to keep her; he thought of his little motherless Emma and his throat constricted in fear.

After the funeral was over she came up to him and wordlessly lifted up her arms in a silent entreaty to be carried. As she settled her cold little nose on his neck and wrapped her icy fingers in his hair, he made a silent promise never to let her go.

If the girls needed a female to bring them up, they could move to Donwell. His own mother would do just as well as any distant aunt living hundreds of miles away. Blood or no, Emma and Isabella were his sisters and if need be, he would move heaven and earth to allow them to remain.

He could not imagine Highbury without Emma. But then he was a partial old friend.

*


	3. Exemplary

**A/N:** Make my day and review – hope you enjoy!

*

He was sitting on the bench with the new governess, Miss Taylor, both of them watching Emma and Isabella skipping pebbles on the lake. She was a sensible, well-mannered woman some two or three years younger than him, and he was sure she would do a fine job of bringing up the Woodhouse girls. 'So what do you think of your young charges?' he asked her.

She smiled fondly as she watched them at their play. 'I like them both very much already. Isabella is a dear girl, and despite or maybe even because of her mischief, one cannot help but like little Emma.'

He observed her through narrowed eyes as she soothed a ruffled Isabella whose dress she had purposely splashed for fun. 'Ah, one likes little Emma now,' he said. 'But what will happen when she is not so little anymore?'

Miss Taylor looked at him quizzically, and he elaborated. 'What is acceptable – even endearing – in a child will be insufferable in a young woman. She will grow up spoilt, vain and with entirely too good an opinion of herself.'

She looked rather taken aback. 'Do you have so little faith in Emma, Mr. Knightley?'

He hurried to reassure her. 'It is not that I lack faith in her, or that I fail to see her good qualities. In many ways Emma is an excellent child, but how can any girl's head _not_ be turned by such universal praise and flattery as she is always receiving?' He sighed, and then smiled, trying to lighten the mood. 'Let us hope, that under your tutelage, she will turn out well.'

'And under yours,' Miss Taylor added. 'Emma looks up to you more than anyone in the world, Mr. Knightley. Take advantage of that – be her guide.'

He looked thoughtfully over at Emma, who saw him looking and waved energetically, a broad smile on her face.

His misgivings almost instantly weakened, and although he smiled wryly at himself, some part of him was truly convinced that with her affectionate heart and sunny disposition, she could not but turn out an exemplary young woman. But then he was a partial old friend.

*


	4. Delightful

**A/N:** Again you might detect a little bit of series-influence, but I do hope it's not 'badly done'. 'Make me the happiest writer in the world' by reviewing and telling me your thoughts, and 'I'll adore you'!

*

He watched, smiling indulgently as she played with her dolls, all her concentration absorbed by performing their marriage ceremony.

However, when her father began speaking to her, she instantly gave him his attention. 'Emma, my dear, are you sure it wouldn't be wiser to give your dolls more substantial shawls?'

He ducked his head to hide his smile, but little Emma didn't bat an eyelid. 'Of course, Father. But the wedding is taking place inside the church, and I've thoroughly checked it for draughts.' She adjusted the bride's veil, speaking matter-of-factly. 'I've already asked Isabella to help me make them warmer clothes for the reception in the garden.'

Mr. Woodhouse's nerves were shaken. 'An outdoor reception?' He looked positively alarmed, all at the idea of two wooden dolls being at risk of catching cold.

Mr. Knightley cleared his throat and bit the inside of his cheek.

She frowned slightly, and then said, almost as if to herself, 'Although I suppose they will need something warmer than just shawls as they go on horseback on their wedding journey to the seaside.'

Mr. Knightley managed to change his burst of laughter into a coughing fit as Mr. Woodhouse spluttered. 'Horseback? Seaside?'

Seven-year-old Emma looked up at him then, a spark of mischief in her eyes and a wicked grin on her face. 'Do you need a glass of water, Mr. Knightley?'

_Little imp._ He tried to glare at her, but couldn't quite manage it.

He had always thought Emma had a delightful sense of humour. But then he was a partial old friend.

*


	5. Remarkable

**A/N:** I got the idea for this drabble from a snippet in the novel where Emma reminds her father how well Miss Taylor looked after her when she had the measles all those years ago. Based on the premise that Miss Taylor was not the only one to look after her ; ).

Would love to hear your thoughts, as always!

*

He tried not to make any noise as he entered her room, unwilling to disturb her rest, his footsteps as gentle as he could make them. However, her sharp ears must have heard him anyway, for when he entered the room, she was sitting up in bed, a cheerful smile plastered with some effort on her face.

When she saw who it was, her whole body relaxed and she reclined once more, heaving a sigh of relief. The forced smile faded from her face and from the glazed and feverish expression in her eyes he could see how much it had cost her to keep it there.

A surge of tenderness rushed through him for his little Emma, ill with the measles and yet so concerned about worrying her nervous father that she would pretend to be almost recovered for his sake. He went to the chair by her bedside and moved to take her hand.

She shook her head, moving her hand away. 'Dr. Perry said it's contagious.'

He reached out and took it anyway. 'I've already had it,' he said firmly.

Then he did what he had come to do – he spent the next few hours alternately talking to her and reading aloud to her, trying to alleviate her boredom and distract her from the tedium of her illness, doing what the doting Miss Taylor was at the moment too busy soothing Mr. Woodhouse to do.

At last she fell asleep in the midst of his reading, and he gently smoothed her hair off her sweaty forehead and adjusted her covers around her. Even though his little Emma was almost every bit as indulged and spoiled as he had feared she would be, some parts of her character were unexceptionable. At eight years old, even when ill, her first thought was for the others around her; in a child so young it was remarkable, and he honoured her for it. But then he was a partial old friend.

*


	6. Amiable

**A/N:** Millernumber1, this drabble is dedicated to you for reminding me of the 'George' moment, which, believe it or not, I'd totally forgotten about. I know, I know – and I call myself an _Emma_ fan! Shocking.

For those who are as forgetful as I am, here's the quote to jog your memory: 'I remember once calling you 'George', in one of my amiable fits, about ten years ago. I did it because I thought it would offend you; but, as you made no objection, I never did it again.'

Please tell me what you think!

*

He looked up from his newspaper at her, happily playing with her dolls. It seemed to be another wedding; there was even a monkey dressed in vicar's robes being helped by Emma to perform the ceremony.

'Aren't you a little old for playing with dolls, Emma?' he said, smiling, half-hoping she would take offence and indignantly defend herself. For some reason vexing her was a delight like none he had known before.

She made an impatient noise. 'I'm not _playing_,' she said severely. 'I'm _practising_ so that I can help with John and Isabella's wedding.'

He frowned. 'John and Isabella? Surely not!' Of course they had always been inseparable, but surely they were like brother and sister, not lovers. And in any case, they were far too young to marry – Isabella had been out for less than a year, and John had yet to sit his bar exam.

Emma looked at him almost pityingly. 'Sometimes, George, I despair of your intelligence.'

He stared for a moment. 'What did you call me?'

She replied immediately. 'Your name – George!' She watched him eagerly for some sign of discomposure or irritation.

'Oh,' he said, and went back to his newspaper.

She had walked up to his side, looking a little cheated. 'Aren't you – aren't you annoyed?' She sounded rather disappointed at his lack of response.

He raised his eyebrows. 'Why? Because you called me George?' He shook his head. 'Why would I be? It is my name, after all – and if you're right about John and Isabella, and we're to be brother and sister, it will only be proper, won't it?'

It took a commendable effort to rein in his laughter when he saw the disgruntled expression on her face as she returned to her dolls. Capricious and naughty though she could be, he could not help finding it rather endearing. But then he was a partial old friend.

*


	7. Quick

**A/N:** Kinda sorta revisiting an idea I went into a little in one of my previous _Emma_ fics, but with a bit more detail/a slightly different focus.

Hope you like it, and please know that any and all reviews are greatly appreciated!

*

'Please remind me why I'm doing this again?' he grumbled, trying to continue executing the moves of the dance despite the soreness in his feet.

Emma glared at him. '_Because_ – oh, sorry, Mr. Knightley –' she had stepped on his toes again– 'I need to perfect all of this before I come out.'

He laughed at the idea of his little Emma ever becoming so grown-up, and could not help his amusement heightening at the sight of her indignant expression. 'Emma, you're only twelve.'

If she was annoyed before, she was positively fuming now. 'I turned thirteen two whole months ago,' she hissed between gritted teeth.

It took a huge effort to suppress his grin as he pretended to be surprised. 'Really?' he said with deliberate carelessness. 'I thought that was your twelfth birthday.' The next moment he winced at the sudden pain in his toes.

'I'm so sorry, Mr. Knightley,' said Emma sweetly. 'I must have mistaken the direction of the dance again.'

He looked at her sourly, not fooled. 'Why can't you practice with Isabella?'

She looked as if she despaired of his understanding. The reasons for not practising with Isabella were patently obvious: for one thing, she would be too busy preparing for the wedding, and there was also that other, more important reason. '_Because_,' she explained in a long-suffering tone, 'Isabella's a _girl._ And I need this to be as real as possible.'

He raised his eyebrows. 'Emma, we're practically brother and sister. It would be improper for us to dance together in public.'

She rolled her eyes. 'Of course I know _that_ – but right now it'll either have to be you or James the coachman, and I really don't think he's done anything to merit such a punishment, do you?'

He could not help agreeing, but yet he was not averse to the idea of the innocent James suffering if it meant _he _could be set free from this torture. However, no sooner had he thought that than her dancing began to proceed more smoothly; she was soon able to hold a conversation without stepping on his toes, something for which he and they were truly grateful.

He had always thought Emma a quick learner. But then he was a partial old friend.

*


	8. Persevering

**A/N:** I'm updating perhaps a little too fast, but the inspiration is flowing (unsurprising since uni has started, and I _really_ should be doing other things). I've written this fic out almost until the beginning of the novel, have skipped heaps (which I will be writing up soon) and have then written through the whole end of the novel and a little beyond, which is where I'm planning on ending it. Hopefully it will be satisfying, and I'm trying my hardest not to rush through it.

In this chapter we begin going through the rather interesting teenage years, which I know many of you have been looking forward to ;-). There is fluff, but you 'ave to look [fairly] 'ard, as Thornton would say. Would love to hear your thoughts!

*

Emma had been learning the piano for years now – or, more accurately, Miss Taylor had been trying to teach Emma the piano for years now – whatever the case, she had never taken such interest in it as she was taking now. Nine times out of ten when he visited these days, she would be there behind the instrument, tongue out in concentration as she stumbled her way through whatever challenging melody she was working on.

He did not fool himself into thinking that this sudden burst of industry was because she actually _wanted _to learn; he had observed with some amusement that not two days after Jane Fairfax's arrival in Highbury, Emma had taken up her current employment. He knew that competition drove her, and that it was only a determination not to be left behind that made her apply herself now: if Miss Fairfax at fourteen could earn the title of an accomplished young lady, then Miss Woodhouse at the same age could not do less. It was probably not the right motivation, but in Mr. Knightley's eyes anything that could motivate Emma to work hard and better herself was acceptable.

Almost without his conscious awareness he drifted over to her side, the better to see what she was doing.

She spoke without turning to look at him, her eyes remaining fixed on the sheets of music in front of her. 'Tell me now, Mr. Knightley,' she said, 'deliver your criticism of my playing so that we may get it out of the way.'

Her tone was arch and her manner teasing, but somewhere beneath the lightness he sensed something more vulnerable, some part of her which was stung and hurt every time he corrected her or pointed out her failings.

Perhaps that was why he then did something unusual: he placed a hand on her shoulder. Her fingers stumbled over the keys as she looked up at him. 'I have no criticisms to make, Emma,' he said, and his voice was gentler than usual. 'Your playing may not be perfect, but I have seen you practicing hard with the view of improving it.' He smiled down at her, warmly. 'I could not ask for more.'

She looked up at him in a glow of gratification and pride, before returning to her practice with renewed vigour.

He smiled as he continued to watch her. There was something unique, something special in the pleasure of hearing her impeccably execute a piece she had been struggling with for the better part of an hour beforehand; something of a pride in her skill and perseverance. There was something to be said for hearing the imperfections which must come before a polished performance: there was the charm of an intimacy, a privilege in being close enough to witness the mistakes before the masterpiece.

He had always preferred Emma's playing to Jane Fairfax's, be she ever so much more accomplished. But then he was a partial old friend.

*


	9. In Agreement

**A/N: **Okay, since most of you don't seem to mind the fast updating, the teenage years shall continue as fast as I can write them out...

Please review – I'd really appreciate it! :)

*

'Well, my dear,' said Mr. Woodhouse, 'and how did you enjoy the company?'

It was a cosy winter evening at Hartfield, and safely esconced out of the snow which could never entirely keep him away from them, Mr. Knightley sat comfortably in his usual chair listening to Emma speak to her father about the Gilberts' dinner party which they had attended the previous evening.

'It was perfectly acceptable,' Emma said in a lofty voice, but then she directed a glare in his direction. 'But _some _of us seemed to enjoy it more than others.'

Since the previous night he sensed she was annoyed with him, but why exactly he did not know, so he said nothing in reply to this thinly-veiled barb. After various commonplace remarks on the food, the furniture and the guests, he saw his opportunity as she retreated to the piano. He followed her and stood next to her on the pretext of turning the pages for her.

Now out of earshot of her father, they could speak openly. 'Tell me, Emma,' he said quietly, 'what have I done to vex you?'

Her eyes sparked, and her fingers came down on the keys perhaps a little too heavily. 'You know perfectly well,' she hissed.

He felt himself beginning to get frustrated. 'No, I don't,' he said bluntly. 'All I know is you've barely looked at me since yesterday. What have I done?'

Her face began to glow quite hotly in her indignation, and she gave up even the pretense of playing, taking her fingers off the keys completely. 'What was the need for you to talk to Mrs. Huntingdon?'

He raised his eyebrows, perplexed. 'She talked to me, Emma. I could hardly avoid replying.'

Emma's eyes flashed. 'Don't give me that – she was shamelessly flirting with you, and you were encouraging her.' She shuddered. 'I hope you're not thinking of bringing _that_ _woman _home to Donwell Abbey.'

In spite of himself his lips twitched at the sharpness of her observation which definitely had a foundation in truth. Mrs. Huntingdon had been a pretty, lively, amusing woman and he had enjoyed his conversation with her – but for all that, he was perfectly aware that her interest in Donwell Abbey and its consequence and concerns was too pointed for him to even consider anything more serious than an evening's entertainment.

But he could never tell Emma that. He restricted his response to merely say, 'Mrs. Huntingdon has only been widowed six months. It's not very charitable of you to be harbouring such suspicions of her.'

She didn't look completely satisfied. He rolled his eyes inwardly. 'Never fear, Emma,' he said, 'the only woman ever to reside in Donwell Abbey shall be Lucy.'

Even she could not begrudge a cocker spaniel the right of residence in his home. Finally she smiled, and the day felt brighter. It was good to be friends again. 'Very well,' she said, 'let us make a pact. Our little nephew Henry shall inherit Donwell; and I shall be the maiden aunt, and you the bachelor uncle.'

She held out her hand, and he shook it to seal their agreement, and in that moment really believed that he would keep to it. After all, it would be a while yet before he fancied himself anything more to her than a partial old friend.

*


	10. So Young

**A/N:** Please tell me what you think of this chapter!

*

He was saddling up his horse in the stables of the Crown Inn when he heard it: the mention of Emma's name as two noisy stable-boys tended to a horse at the other end of the place. His ears pricked and he listened hard.

'Forget Miss Cox,' one of them was saying loudly, 'have you _seen_ Miss Woodhouse?'

'Ay, Miss Prim-and-Proper from Hartfield?' The other boy's tone was dismissive. 'What are you on about, man? She'd be frigid.'

His lips compressed tightly over his teeth and his hands clenched themselves into fists.

'Are you mad? Imagine _that_ in your bed – Miss High-and-Mighty begging for more, those lips of hers ready to do anything–'

Clearing his throat loudly, he stepped forward so that they were aware of his presence. Both boys stopped talking at once, looking rather frightened at his face which was like thunder, but after giving them a look of contempt, he managed to control the almost overwhelming urge to commit some act of physical violence and turned on his heel and left.

After warning Mrs. Stokes about the foul-mouthed boys she had the misfortune to call servants, he rode hard back to Donwell, still boiling with anger that anyone would dare speak of Emma in that way.

Try as he might to banish it, the matter lingered and weighed on his mind. His little Emma was a girl of only seventeen, still so young; and to hear her spoken of in such terms roused every protective instinct in him.

That evening at Hartfield, he found himself watching Emma with new eyes, trying to see what those boys had seen; and he was disturbed beyond measure to find himself admitting that his Emma was no longer a child, that a grown man could quite conceivably be attracted to her. He shifted uncomfortably in his chair and averted his gaze from her.

It would not be long, he thought, before she would begin to attract suitors, young men vying for her affections, flattering and wooing her, one of them eventually fooling her into marrying him. Even the thought made him feel ill. He silently vowed then and there that he would watch over her, would protect her from any duplicitous young man, would never let anyone take advantage of her. After all, he was a partial old friend.

*


	11. More His Sister

**A/N:** I remember one of you wondering in a review how I was going to tackle Knightley being in love with Emma 'ever since she was thirteen at least' – so I shall make it clear that I don't believe in this. I reckon he was being playful and tongue-in-cheek when he was saying that, saying basically that if his lecturing and remonstrating her meant he was in love with her, he's been in love ever since she was at least 13, because that's how long he's been scolding her.

However, I do believe that Knightley and Emma have been unconsciously in love with each other for a couple of years (just not from as early as when she was 13 – ick!).

Would love to hear your thoughts on this chapter, as always!

*

It was her first proper ball, and he was glad for her excitement, although he himself derived but little pleasure from dancing or languidly standing about watching it. However, he could not have refused the invitation without giving offence, and it was his duty to watch over Emma.

And so that was what he did, standing in a corner with the husbands, fathers and card-players, men who were just as disinterested in the prospect of dancing as he was. He scrutinised every applicant for her hand – and there were many. She was looking uncommonly lovely tonight, and if he could do it without feeling self-conscious about it sounding too much like the flattery of a lover, he would tell her so.

He frowned as he saw her laughing and smiling as she danced with William Cox, who did not seem able to take his eyes off her face. She seemed perfectly unconscious of awakening any particular regard in him, and that worried Mr. Knightley. Her naivety about the effect she could have on men – he adjusted his neckcloth, which seemed rather too tight – was something which he feared would get her into trouble one of these days.

The crude words of those stable-boys at the Crown had started the idea, and now every time he was around Emma he seemed to see young men paying her attention, admiring her slender and graceful form, eyes lingering where they should not. It seemed wrong, somehow. Nobody else should look at Emma like that.

He was so deep in his thoughts that he almost started in surprise when he heard her voice in his ear. 'Why do you disapprove of me, Mr. Knightley?'

He looked down into her smiling face, bewildered. Disapproval was the farthest thing from his mind. 'What do you mean?'

She raised an eyebrow, archly. 'What am I supposed to think if you will look at me so sternly for over an hour together?'

He felt himself colour. 'I wasn't – that is, I–' He stopped. His thoughts were not coherent enough to be put into words. What could he say? _Emma, you are too beautiful to be safely allowed out of the house?_ Hardly.

To his relief, she let it pass. 'Why are you not dancing?' she asked instead.

He began to be aware of the direction their conversation was taking, and he felt an unaccustomed stab of panic which made his reply more brusque than he had intended. 'I do not enjoy dancing, and I am not good at it.' He hoped that that would be the end of it: dancing with Emma would be dangerous, would open doors best left shut, would be like running a knife over a bubble, releasing thoughts he did not wish to examine.

She did not look hurt at this brush-off, and instead there was something almost gentle in her expression. 'And have you not always told me that if one is not good at something, one should practice, in order to improve?' She held out a gloved hand to him. 'Practice with me.'

The tension in his shoulders eased and he relaxed, taking her hand. He was being ridiculous – this was _Emma_, whom he had known all her life. Emma, whom he had guided and protected for so many years. Emma, who was more his sister than even Isabella.

Despite these reassurances he gave himself, he did not tell her how beautiful she was looking that night. Anyway, he reasoned, what would the compliment be worth, coming from him? He was just a partial old friend.

*


	12. Alone, Together

**A/N:** And this is the last installment I've written in order (have got drabbles for pretty much the whole second half of the novel written out, but still need to fill in the gap), so it might take a little longer than usual before the next drabble.

Hope you enjoy this one anyway – please review and let me know what you think of it!

*

Over the next few months, despite the daily increase in Emma's personal charms, young men were hardly beating down the doors at Hartfield as he had feared. Those whom he could see were infatuated with Emma, were not of situations admitting them to pay their addresses to her, and thankfully they themselves seemed to recognise this and kept a respectful distance. There was nobody in Highbury who was suitable for her, and it was unlikely that she would meet with anyone from outside as she never travelled from home.

She did not seem to feel this especially – she was perfectly content with her life as it was, and was happy to be mistress of Hartfield, patiently and lovingly looking after her father. How often had he heard her declare that she would never marry and leave him? He watched her now, as she bustled about her father, securing his shawl for him and making sure he was close enough to the somewhat oppressive fire which he was so fond of.

He had been a fool to worry, but for once he was glad to have been mistaken. It had taken him several months of paranoia and suspicion to perceive that he had no cause to worry.

It had also taken him several months to come to terms with the fact that Emma Woodhouse was no longer the child he had always doted on, but a young woman. It was a change that was by no means disagreeable, for if Emma had been a very pretty child, she was now an extraordinarily beautiful woman; but yet some part of him rather wistfully wished once more for the little doll with the large hazel eyes, the little whirlwind of energy and enthusiasm, the little one whose infant preference for himself had gained her a special place in his heart forever. Those were the golden years when he had never had to worry about her as much as he had been doing of late.

'A penny for your thoughts, Mr. Knightley?' Lost in his thoughts, he had not noticed her quietly coming to sit on the sofa beside him.

He smiled a little self-consciously. 'They're perhaps not worth even that,' he said. 'I was just thinking that it was a pity that things have to change.'

She laughed, and the old mischievous light came into her eyes, warning him that he was about to be teased. 'You sound just like Father,' she said. 'Soon you will be taking gruel of an evening.'

'Only if it is made by Serle,' he quipped, and was rewarded with her appreciative smile.

Then, looking up at him more seriously, she said, 'Not all things have to change. Father and I will still be here, and you will still come to visit us.' She took his hand. 'And, of course, our little nephew Henry will inherit Hartfield and Donwell, and–'

'–you will be the maiden aunt, and I the bachelor uncle,' he finished, squeezing her hand. Their pact of some two or three years ago had become a running joke between them, but tonight he found real comfort in the notion of a future in which he and Emma were alone, together.

She had always known how to put his mind at ease. But then they were partial old friends.

*


	13. Indispensable

**A/N: **These 'drabbles' are getting longer and longer, and less and less drabble-like. Oh well... I'm guessing you guys don't mind too much.

Please review and tell me what you think of this chapter!

*

He had known Emma all her life, and had always had a sincere interest in her welfare. Although given the option he would never give that up, at times he could almost fancy it a curse. Sometimes it almost seemed as if Emma lay awake at night thinking of new ways to make him worry about her.

It seemed to him as if he had only just stopped worrying about her falling prey to some unworthy young man (although in truth it had been several months since that had disturbed his peace) when his observation of her plans concerning Miss Taylor and Mr. Weston occasioned him a new worry.

Not that she had confided in him, but the gleam in her eye and the air of triumph she wore whenever the two conversed or smiled or so much as looked at each other were enough to reveal to him the full extent of her scheming. He looked at her gravely as she enthusiastically conversed with her unfortunate victims, imagining that she was facilitating their discussion rather than realising she was actually interrupting what would have progressed just as well or even better without her interference.

It could not be healthy for her to involve herself so much in directing the lives of others, and if the match ever came about, he knew it would simply feed her already inflated opinion of herself. He would have to have a word with her; doubtless she would scoff at him or even deny that she had any plans, but perhaps given time and some contemplation his words would have an effect.

Finally he saw his opportunity as she stood disengaged, surveying the room to make sure everyone was entertained, at barely twenty already an attentive hostess and the perfect mistress of Hartfield. He went to stand beside her, and said quietly, 'You really should stop your matchmaking, Emma.'

She laughed as she turned to look at him. 'Worried, Mr. Knightley?' She patted his arm, as if in reassurance. 'Don't be – I would never presume to make any for _you_.'

He opened his mouth to say that that was not the point, that he was worried not for himself, but because she shouldn't be making matches for _anybody, _but her sidelong glance at him and her carefully casual words scattered his train of thought. 'From what I've heard from John, you don't need my help.'

He rolled his eyes. 'John seems to be on a mission to find a mistress for Donwell, despite all my protests. I can hardly stay in London for fear of being introduced to unmarried ladies and young widows.'

Emma smiled fondly at his disgruntled expression. 'I have a simple solution for your predicament: tell him you're promised to me.'

He did a double take. 'W-what did you say?'

She looked at him as if he were a little thick. 'Tell him your promise to me,' she repeated slowly, her expression a little bemused. 'You _do _remember, don't you?' As he said nothing, she looked at him in mock-reproach before elaborating in a long-suffering tone, 'Henry shall inherit Donwell, and–'

He recovered himself, finishing for her. 'We'll be the bachelor aunt and maiden uncle – no, other way around, sorry–'

He could not continue for she had begun to laugh, and it was infectious; he could not help but join her. For perhaps as long as a minute, they were helpless, and laughing almost until they couldn't breathe. Finally, after they had calmed down somewhat, he looked at her, smiling up at him, cheeks rosy, eyes luminous in an expression that was half-affection, half-laughter, and he thought he had never felt so contented in his life.

He would not trade _this_, this warmth and laughter, this peace and contentment – he would not trade _Emma _for the finest mistress Donwell could ever have. But then he was a partial old friend.

*


	14. Curious Emma

**A/N:** I'm in a good mood, so I thought I'd share this early. I just won an Australian Student Prize (certificate and $2000!!) for my exam results last year, despite the fact that I spent far more time than I should have last year writing fanfic and watching period drama. Ahahaha. I love life.

Anyway – please review and let me know what you think of this chapter; hope you guys don't mind that it's very much influenced by the series. This is the last one of my invented canon, I think. From the next we'll start moving into the novel.

Also - does anyone get the very lame wordplay in the chapter title, or am I the only one? ;-)

*

When he walked into the drawing room at Hartfield he found Emma alone, standing looking out of the window, so still that she might almost have been part of the furniture. She didn't turn at his entrance, but the next moment she spoke. 'John and Isabella aren't visiting during the autumn holiday as usual this year. They're going to the seaside for Bella's throat.' A moment's pause. 'I won't get to see my new little niece until Christmas.'

He knew it, and as he had read John's letter earlier that day he had felt for Emma, who he knew had been looking forward to her sister's visit for over a month now. Only last week she had been excitedly showing him the new cap she had been making for the baby, which she would be too big for by the time Christmas came around.

Eyes warm with sympathy, he moved across the room so that he was standing next to her by the window. He was tempted to offer solutions, to suggest that she write and invite John and Isabella to come to Highbury earlier than Christmas, or that she send the baby's cap with him to London when he next visited, but he refrained. Over the years he had learned that Emma did not need him to fix her problems; that it was enough if he simply listened.

Silently, he took her hand.

After a few moments, she said in a small, wistful voice, 'I've never seen the seaside.' Then, remembering herself, she hastily added, 'Though of course I know Father needs me here, and I could never enjoy myself if I knew he was worrying about me.'

She sounded as if she felt guilty about possessing a young person's natural curiosity for seeing more of the world around her, and it saddened him. Not for the first time, he wished that good, kind Mr. Woodhouse was just a little less fretful about his youngest daughter.

Presently he said matter-of-factly, as if he were beginning a new conversation, 'I have to write to John and remind him that as he's missed spending the autumn holiday in Highbury, it's still Hartfield's turn to host him.' Technically it was Donwell's year to host the London Knightleys, but if it made Emma – and Mr. Woodhouse – happy, then it was no inconvenience to him to make the mile's walk to Hartfield that he made almost daily anyway.

Emma smiled up at him softly, gratefully, and she shifted her hand to intertwine their fingers together.

He made a silent promise to himself then, that some day he would take her to beautiful places, let her experience all that she had only ever heard about, let her see the wide, wonderful world outside of Highbury. After all, was he not a partial old friend?

*


	15. Nonsensical

**A/N:** Yay, we've reached the novel! I'll be following the book mainly, but for some scenes (e.g. the ball at the Crown), I might be heavily influenced by the series.

Hope you enjoy – please review and tell me what you think (anything)!

*

He tried not to smile as he patiently listened to Mr. Woodhouse's lamentations about 'poor Miss Taylor'; only at Hartfield would a wedding be considered an occasion for mourning. 'How did you all behave?' he asked, catching Emma's eye. 'Who cried most?'

But soon he found out that far from crying, Emma was in glee from still harbouring her misguided feelings of personal pride in the match having come about. Of all the ridiculous claims, for her to say that if Mr. Weston and Miss Taylor were married, it was only due to her own meddling!

Nothing he could say could seem to convince her otherwise, and when she expressed her determination to rescue 'poor Mr. Elton' from the misery of celibacy – though not, thankfully, personally – he resisted the urge to roll his eyes. He had spoken; she had not heeded him – she would have to learn from experience then, that the world didn't revolve around her, and that people wouldn't always fall in neatly with her plans.

He tried one last time, seizing on Mr. Woodhouse's unintentionally sound advice to support him. 'Invite him to dinner, Emma,' he agreed, 'and help him to the best of the fish and the chicken, but leave him to choose his own wife.'

He had a passing feeling of pity for Elton, who even if he was sometimes a little irritating because of his rather too ingratiating civility towards the ladies, certainly had done nothing to deserve the dubious distinction of being Emma's next victim.

It was the result, he thought, of her isolated upbringing and limited experience. Weary of the monotony of her own life, was it any great wonder that she took to filling her time meddling in the lives of others? If only Mr. Woodhouse had allowed her to travel more, or if only Emma could have found another young woman equal in education and upbringing to be her friend. He had often wished that Jane Fairfax would be oftener in Highbury, for she was just such a young woman.

'A penny for your thoughts, Mr. Knightley,' said Emma, and as he turned towards her at the sound of her voice, he was in time to catch her playful smile. 'Or should I be afraid of hearing them?'

'I was thinking,' he said, matching her tone, 'that you desperately need a different hobby.'

'Ah!' Her expression became very serious. 'But that, of course, is entirely your fault.'

He was genuinely bewildered. '_Mine_? How?'

She listed off each point on her fingers. 'I gave up drawing in disgust after you refused to sit for me; I don't read more because you've read everything and I can simply ask you; I don't practice music more because I know I can never reach the level of excellence you keep reminding me Jane Fairfax has reached; I don't ride because as you visit us all the time I never have to go out far enough to justify using a horse; and after dancing with you, I've been spoilt for any other partner.'

He felt himself colour at this last, but did not know if it was from pleasure or embarrassment, and he suspected he wouldn't ever know unless he knew whether she was being serious or simply teasing him. He did not know what to say in reply, so this time he let her win their exchange. 'Nonsensical girl,' he smiled, and then let it pass.

After all, he was a partial old friend.

*


	16. Vain

**A/N:** Hope you guys won't get too bored with the bits from the novel – I'm trying to prevent it from being copied verbatim from the book by adding in Mr. Knightley's thoughts throughout and especially at certain interesting parts, and by continuing the conversations past what you see in the scene in the novel, as you saw in the last drabble.

* * *

'Do you really think it a bad thing? Why so?'

He was disappointed to hear the genuine astonishment in her voice; he had been counting on Mrs. Weston's support of his opinion on Emma's new friendship with Mrs. Goddard's former pupil and boarder, Harriet Smith.

He knew Emma would never listen to him on such a point when his advice went against her own inclination; he had been hoping that if Mrs. Weston's voice was added to his, they might have some chance of succeeding.

He tried to put his foreboding into words. 'I think neither of them will do the other good. Harriet Smith is the very worst sort of companion that Emma could possibly have. She knows nothing herself and looks upon Emma as knowing everything.' He had known Emma all her life and held a true, sincere regard for her – but he was not blind to her faults. He knew that Harriet by her unintentional flattery would feed Emma's vanity and further inflate her opinion of herself; and that was the last thing she needed.

If he had hoped that sensible Mrs. Weston could be persuaded to be of his mind, he was disappointed. She persisted in her opinion that there was no harm in the friendship, that it would in fact be beneficial to both parties.

Sighing somewhat resignedly, he let the matter rest. 'Very well,' he said, 'I will keep my ill humour to myself. I have a very sincere interest in Emma. There is an anxiety–' his thoughts regarding Emma for the past three years bore testament to that –'a curiosity in what one feels for Emma. I wonder what will become of her!'

'So do I,' said Mrs. Weston, 'very much.'

'She always declares she will never marry, which, of course, means just nothing at all.' Although it would be ideal if he and Emma could keep to their pact and remain single as the bachelor uncle and maiden aunt to little Henry, he knew it was not a realistic hope. Emma was, after all, a beautiful, lively, intelligent young woman, sure to catch the eye of someone or other. But Emma did not need a lover adding to the flattery she got from everyone else. 'I should like to see Emma in love,' he said suddenly, 'and in some doubt of a return. It would do her good.' From the agonies and insecurities he had seen John experience in the weeks preceding his proposal to Isabella years ago, he knew that there was nothing like uncertainty in love for making one thoroughly humble.

And, of course, in such a scenario the danger of the young man returning her feelings and marrying her was done away with.

Such an event would make Mr. Woodhouse dreadfully unhappy, and in retrospect, this would hurt Emma too – and he could not have that. After all, he was a partial old friend.


	17. Naive

**A/N:** I'm probably going to sound whiny no matter how I phrase this, but... I've noticed that only about a quarter of the people who have this on their alerts actually review. Come on, guys – if you like it, tell me why (or at least just tell me so). If you don't like it, tell me how I can improve. Just a little effort on your part = a BIG smile on my face.

Okay, enough of the urging to feed my vanity. Hope you like this chapter!

* * *

He looked at the portrait with a critical eye, but while he had to admit that it was a pretty picture, very well-drawn and beautifully composed, he could not say that it was a true likeness. It was certainly recognisable as Miss Smith, but it was too... perfect. There was not a single flaw in the figure in the portrait – there was something a little unreal about it which detracted from its appeal. He had always preferred human imperfection to that sort of unreal perfection.

He had observed this same flaw in all of Emma's portraits – she would rid her subjects of the minor imperfections that made them human, and would instead present her own idealised version of them. Perhaps that was why he had declined that one time she had requested him to sit for her – he had not wanted to see her change the length of his nose or the size of his earlobes or the breadth of his shoulders to make him an acceptable addition to her collection of perfect portraits.

'You have made her too tall, Emma,' he said, when his opinion was sought.

Emma opened her mouth, no doubt to protest against such a statement, but Mr. Elton – who, somewhat inexplicably had been present at Hartfield several of the times Mr. Knightley had visited in recent days – pre-empted her. 'Oh, no! Certainly not too tall, not in the least too tall. Consider, she is sitting down – which naturally presents a different – which in short gives exactly the idea – and the proportions must be preserved, you know. Oh, no! It gives one exactly the idea of such a height as Miss Smith's.'

He was torn between indignation and amusement as he suddenly realised the reason why Elton had been hovering about Hartfield so much of late. He shot a quick glance at Emma to see how she would react to Elton's insolence in raising his eyes to her, but all amusement died as he saw her expression. She was smiling genuinely at that simpering fool, actually looking pleased at his enthusiastic if uninformed defence of her portrait.

Surely Emma was far too sensible to be in love with that insufferable toady? She _had_ to be.

Certainly he had once wished to see Emma in love – but she had to be in some doubt of the gentleman's sentiments, or the whole point of love acting as a temperance of her vanity would be lost. Even if one ignored all other considerations, Elton's particular brand of ingratiating, overblown flattery alone made him the very worst possible lover for Emma.

Emma needed someone who wouldn't flatter her, someone who would tell her the truth – and above all, someone who valued her for _herself _and not for her sizable dowry. Someone like–

His thoughts were scattered as he observed Emma smiling the same smile she had directed at Elton, but this time towards Harriet.

His eyes narrowed.

Her smile was one of triumph and self-satisfaction; it was the same pleased smile she wore whenever she got her own way. What had she achieved this time?

And when he saw her glance from Harriet to Elton and then back again, all the while with that same secret smile on her lips, he knew. She had marked out the next victims for her matchmaking scheme, and – _dear Lord _– she was convinced that Elton's flattery was all for Harriet's benefit.

He almost groaned in exasperation. _Will she _never_ learn?_ For all her quickness and intelligence, sometimes Emma's naivety worried him. He was so used to sparring and bantering with her as an equal that sometimes he forgot just how young she was. He would have to keep an eye on her, try and make sure her misleadingly encouraging behaviour to Elton didn't end in her getting hurt.

After all, he was a partial old friend.


	18. Eminently Suitable

**A/N:** Thank you all for responding so graciously to my whinging and not taking it the wrong way – you guys are awesome!

Would love it if you could all review this one too, and tell me what you think!

* * *

At the end of their conversation he let the carefully neutral expression on his face melt away into a genuine smile. 'You know,' he said to the nervous young man, 'you don't strictly need my permission.'

Robert Martin's shoulders relaxed. 'No, sir,' he said, looking him frankly in the eye, 'but I would like your blessing.'

He was only too glad to give it, for although Martin didn't know it, his plan would put to rest Mr. Knightley's newly growing worry. For if Martin married Harriet Smith, Emma would have to give up her matchmaking plans and this absurd situation with Elton could be put to an end before he worked himself up to a declaration which was certain to be extremely unwelcome to her.

It was the perfect end to the trouble: Harriet Smith would be comfortably settled with a man who loved her, Elton would be disabused of the ridiculous notion that Emma was succumbing to his dubious charms and Emma, though perhaps a little disappointed at the thwarting of her plan, could not but be glad to see her friend so happily settled. Surely even Emma, with all her partiality for Harriet, would think it a good match.

Perhaps it would also serve as a lesson to her; perhaps it would show her that the people around her were not simply pawns she could control and move about as she chose, but were thinking, independent beings with their own inclinations and desires – and who had absolutely no need of _her_ direction.

Yes, he thought as he warmly shook Robert's hand and saw him off, this was the best possible outcome for all involved.

In a day or two he would go to Hartfield, he decided, either to give the news himself or to see how she had received it.

He smiled as he watched Martin walk off, a spring in his step, and then his smile became wry as he realised that half his good humour was centred in a proprietary kind of pride and delight in the fact that _he _had assisted the match, had given due encouragement to Robert, had helped bring the two together. He was acting just like Emma.

All the more reason to visit Hartfield. He would show Emma that he _could_ relate to her on occasion, and then they would spend a pleasant morning discussing the eminent suitability of the match. After all, they were partial old friends.


	19. Deluded 1

**A/N:** Since the argument is pretty epic, it will have to be split into two segments. Hope you guys don't mind ;-) – please review and tell me your thoughts, as always!

* * *

'Pray, Mr. Knightley,' said Emma, smiling, 'how do you know that Mr. Martin did _not_ speak yesterday?'

He was a little surprised that she seemed to know already, but nevertheless he was glad that the idea made her smile. He had been a little afraid that she would be saddened to lose her new friend to marriage so soon after Mrs. Weston. 'I do not absolutely know it,' he said. 'But was she not the whole day with you?'

'Come,' she said, 'I will tell you something in return. He _did_ speak yesterday – that is, he wrote, and was refused.'

He couldn't believe it. He had seen Robert off only the other day glowing with his not at all unreasonably founded hopes, and now...

He felt a stab of anger towards Harriet, who by Robert's modest account had not seemed averse to the idea – how could the girl break an honest man's heart like that after toying with his feelings? Especially when doing so was so totally against her own interests.

'Then she is a greater simpleton than I ever believed her,' he said in indignant reply. 'What is the foolish girl about?'

'Oh, to be sure,' cried Emma, raising an arch eyebrow, 'it is always incomprehensible to a man that a woman should ever refuse an offer of marriage. A man always imagines a woman to be ready for anybody who asks her.'

He was appalled, not only at the ridiculous generalisation – growing up within the confines of Highbury, with no firsthand experience herself, how she thought she knew _anything _about men was beyond him – but also at her manner, which seemed to indicate that she regarded it all as a joke. Even now she was looking at him with that playful glint in her eyes, expecting him to give some bantering reply in his turn.

'A man does not imagine any such thing,' he snapped, and he was so annoyed that even the sight of Emma's face falling as she realised the seriousness of his displeasure failed to soften him. 'Harriet Smith, refuse Robert Martin? Madness if it is so; but I hope you are mistaken.'

She recovered from her surprise at his reaction. 'I saw her answer,' she said airily. 'Nothing could be clearer.' She did not quite meet his eyes as she said it.

His eyes narrowed as he observed her shrewdly for a moment. 'You saw her answer!' he repeated incredulously. 'You wrote her answer too. Emma, this is your doing. _You _persuaded her to refuse him.'

She did not even look apologetic, and indeed she pursued her point with some energy. 'And if I did, I should not feel that I had done wrong. Mr. Martin is a very respectable young man, but I cannot admit him to be Harriet's equal.'

'Not Harriet's equal!'

For a moment he was almost staggered by just how self-deluded she was – to actually _truly _think that Harriet Smith, the natural daughter of nobody knew whom, a parlour boarder with no home of her own and no respectable relations, a girl of little sense and no information, had grander claim than and was superior to good, kind, respectable, sensible Robert Martin who could offer her a comfortable home and a settled provision for the rest of her life!

He opened his mouth to speak. It was his duty to enlighten Emma on the ways of the world, to tell her the truth that nobody else would bother to bring to her notice. After all, he was a partial old friend.


	20. Deluded 2

**A/N:** The argument turned out to be even more epic than I foresaw – it will have to be split into _three_ segments. Hope you don't mind ;-). Would love to hear your thoughts on this installment, as always!

* * *

Nothing he said seemed to make an impression on her. The insignificance of Harriet's claims, the evils of her situation, the encouragement he was sure she had given Robert, all were dwelt on without any apparent effect. Certainly she had no defense to give in response to his arguments, but that did not deter her from persisting in her ridiculous opinion of Harriet's superiority and starting up her own lines of debate.

'Even supposing her only to be, as you describe, pretty and good-natured, those are not trivial recommendations to the world in general,' she asserted.

He raised his eyebrows – _she _was going to tell _him _how the world worked, was she?

'And till it appears that men are much more philosophic on the subject of beauty than they are generally supposed,' she continued, 'till they _do _fall in love with well-informed minds rather than pretty faces, a girl with such loveliness as Harriet has a certainty of being admired and sought after.'

She sounded almost frustrated, and he was instantly defensive. Certainly fools like Elton might with little trouble fall for a pretty face, especially if there was a vast fortune in the bargain – sometimes that man made him ashamed for his own sex – but surely Emma knew _him_ well enough to know that not all men lost their senses when met with a pair of fine eyes? Surely she knew that he had often appreciated her lively mind and keen intellect not simply as an extra adornment to her outer beauty, but as the charm without which that beauty would not be so extraordinary?

'I am very much mistaken if your sex in general would not think such beauty and such temper the highest claims a woman could possess,' she finished resolutely.

He had to admit that she made a good argument – articulate, coherent and with a certain twisted logic to it which almost made him believe himself that Harriet Smith was a great catch. But all this rhetoric to what purpose? So that Harriet would befit Emma's idea of what her protégée should be – so that she could convince herself that Harriet Smith was above honest, hardworking, kind-hearted Robert Martin.

'Upon my word, Emma,' he said quietly, 'to hear you abusing the reason you have is almost enough to make me think so too. Better be without sense than misapply it as you do.'

'Oh, to be sure,' she cried, and he was irritated at her second descent into the playfulness he usually found so charming. 'I know _that_ is the feeling of you all. I know that such a girl as Harriet is exactly what every man delights in – what at once bewitches his senses and satisfies his judgment. Were you yourself ever to marry, she is the very woman for you.'

He scoffed at such a ridiculous notion. Harriet Smith was a pretty, good-tempered girl, but she was hardly the sort of woman for him. He could only ever be truly happy with an intellectual equal – someone who had an independent thought in her head, someone who had her own opinions, someone who could and would match him word for word in banter and disputes alike.

'And is she, at seventeen,' Emma continued, 'just entering into life, to be wondered at because she does not accept the first offer she receives? No – pray let her have time to look about her.'

This was really deplorable – would nothing he said get through to her? Had it been anyone else, he would have given up in disgust long ago. But this was _Emma_, whom he had guided and protected for so long. He _had_ to keep trying, if only because he was a partial old friend.


	21. Deluded 3

**A/N:** Had to split it into 4 parts – but I promise it won't get any more drawn out than that. There's a bit of series influence in the movements and actions of the next two drabbles.

Hope you enjoy – would love to hear what you think!

* * *

Previously, he had tried without success to impress upon her the evils of Harriet's situation and the merits of Robert Martin's, and now he tried to appeal to Emma's unaccountable fondness for the girl, which – quite apart from her indulged vanity – he knew was genuine in and of itself. 'Let her marry Robert Martin,' he said, 'and she is safe, respectable and happy forever; encourage her to expect to marry greatly to nothing less than a man of consequence and large fortune, and she might remain a parlour-boarder at Mrs. Goddard's for the rest of her life.'

Emma apparently had no such worries for her friend's future. 'She must abide by the evil of having refused him, whatever that may be,' she said, and her scepticism was evident in her voice, 'and as to the refusal itself, I will not pretend to having _no _influence, but I assure you, there was very little for me to do.'

Her hands were busy arranging the dried flowers in a vase on the side table, and she spoke without looking at him. 'I can imagine,' she said lightly, 'that before she had seen anybody superior, she might tolerate him. But now she knows what gentlemen are – and nothing but a gentleman in education and manner has any chance with Harriet.'

Even _his _patience with Emma had a limit. Before he could say anything he might regret, he walked abruptly around her and out of the door. If she was so determined to ignore his advice, she could suffer the guilt of causing Harriet's disappointment – he would say no more. If she refused to open her eyes, she could suffer the mortification of finding _herself_ to be Elton's object–

Halfway down the gravel path, he stopped suddenly. _Elton_. If he said nothing now, the circle of misunderstanding would continue, ultimately culminating in some gross imposition on Elton's part. It would be infinitely distressing to Emma, but humbling though it would undoubtedly be for her to realise the extent of her misjudgment, it was such a cruel lesson as even he would not wish on her.

No matter how angry he was with her, no matter how much in error she was, he could not leave her to her fate without at least trying to warn her. After all, he was a partial old friend.


	22. Deluded 4

**A/N:** Final part of the epic argument. Thought I'd post it as soon as I finished it, since the last part was so short. It was going to be all one part, but it got too long to even pretend it was a drabble.

Would love to hear your comments, as always!

* * *

He turned back, and Emma must have heard his footsteps, for she immediately turned in her seat to face him, a relieved and happy smile on her face. 'I am so pleased you are come back,' she said in a rush, 'for we will always be friends.'

For a moment her smile almost tempted him to accept the peace offering, but then he shook his head to dispel the thought. 'I came back to say this, Emma,' he said brusquely. 'As you make no secret of your love of matchmaking, it is fair to suppose that views and plans and projects you must have; and as a friend I shall just hint to you that if Elton is the man, I think it will all be labour in vain.'

He said the last words with a significant emphasis, sure that she could not mistake his meaning, but she merely laughed. 'Indeed, I have no such plans, Mr. Knightley,' she said, not quite meeting his eyes.

He pushed down his wave of frustration at her blatant falsehood; she had never been able to lie to him with any great degree of success. He must persist in his warning, must make himself more clear if he wanted to get through to her. 'Depend upon it, Elton will not do. He knows that he is a very handsome young man and a great favourite wherever he goes–' personally, this had always rather perplexed Mr. Knightley– 'and from his general way of talking in unreserved moments when only men are present, I am convinced he does not mean to throw himself away.' He looked at her intently as he spoke, but although the first doubts began to show through the cracks in her usual self-confidence, he could see that she still had no idea of the real danger of the man's ambition.

All he had to do was say it, blurt out something to the effect of _Elton doesn't want to marry Harriet, he wants to marry _you_ – _but the words stuck in his throat and he couldn't bring himself to say them. If he did, no doubt she would immediately ask how he was so sure, and what answer could he give her then? That he had recognised that look in Elton's eyes as he regarded her, the look he had seen in the eyes of many young men over the years as they beheld the irresistibly lovely Emma Woodhouse? It was a look that wasn't love – it was part of love, certainly, but it somehow looked wrong without the rest of it. It was a look that had caused him many a sleepless night of worry over the past few years.

He would make his point another way. 'I have heard him speak with great animation of a large family of young ladies that his sisters are intimate with, who all have twenty thousand pounds apiece.' It was true, and it seemed he had just raised his ambitions from the Misses Elliot with twenty thousand to a Miss Woodhouse with thirty thousand. Surely it would serve to show her that the man was mercenary and insincere, and that would be enough to make her cease her misleadingly encouraging behaviour towards him.

The doubt in Emma's eyes was either gone or very well-hidden, for she laughed in seemingly genuine merriment. 'If I had my heart set on Mr. Elton's marrying Harriet, it would have been very kind to open my eyes; but at present I only want to keep Harriet to myself. I have done with matchmaking indeed. I could never equal my own doings at Randalls. I shall leave off while I am well.'

He could almost grind his teeth in frustration, but there was nothing more he could say to sway her. He could look at her reproachfully as he was doing now, but there was no reprimand, no correction, nothing more he could use to convince her that he had not tried already. He shook his head in disgust. 'Good morning to you,' he snapped, bowing stiffly and then leaving abruptly before her unyielding obstinacy provoked him further.

Partial old friend as he was, he had done his duty; and he was just disappointed that she had not been more receptive.


	23. Unsettled

**A/N:** We've moved on from the fight at last, but now we're into the aftermath. Hope you like this chapter – please review with your thoughts, as always!

* * *

For the next few weeks he visited Hartfield only at the times when he knew Emma would walk into Highbury with Harriet or visit Mrs. Weston at Randalls, thereby managing what was due to Mr. Woodhouse without ever running into his daughter.

It was difficult, though. He would sometimes wake up in the morning admiring the weather and think of walking over to Hartfield to see if he could tempt Emma to walk into the shrubbery and enjoy it with him, and then he would remember that they were not friends at the moment. Other times during the course of his day he would witness or experience something interesting or amusing which he knew she would appreciate, and he would file it away in his memory to share with her when he next saw her, only to remember that they were not on speaking terms.

However, he knew he could not make up with her as, despite everything, he heartily wished to. During their argument _he _had certainly not been in the wrong, and it was seeming increasingly unlikely that _she _would ever admit that she had. Why was she being so blind when it came to Harriet Smith? He could not remember the last time their opinions had been so radically opposed to each other's; for years now they had thought alike on all important matters – at least after he had reasoned with her a little – and what arguments they _had _had were minor squabbles in the outcome of which neither was particularly invested, and which often degenerated into playful banter.

They had never had such an argument before. Before this the longest they had gone without speaking had been a day, and even that had eaten away at him until he had made it up with her. Now... now it had been two weeks and five days, and that spoke for itself when it came to how unsettled it was making him feel. And yet he wished Emma to realise the error she had been in, and until such time he didn't trust himself to be in her company without making up with her in spite of himself.

However, he would _have _to see her again in a few days, when John and Isabella arrived at Hartfield – although hopefully in the confusion and bustle of a house full of people (including five small children, who would require the energy and attention of twice the number of their adult counterparts) he would not have to exchange more than a perfunctory word or two with Emma.

He would greet her formally, and would not immediately weaken his stance simply because she smiled at him, in the way that she was wont to do when she wanted something. He had known others – her father, Isabella, Miss Taylor, even on occasion himself – melt at that smile which was an irresistible mixture of charm, beseeching and an endearing trust that the person whom she was smiling at would not disappoint her – and one more part, the most potent of all: the fact that it was totally without design – a totally unconscious and for that very reason greatly effective tool of persuasion.

Well, he was aware of it, and would do his utmost not to let it sway him this time. He would keep his distance from her, for all that his heart cried out that he wished once more to be her partial old friend.


	24. Distance

**A/N:** The next few chapters will be based on series- rather than book-verse, because I like the order of events in the series more – they work together to diffuse the quarrel brewing between their family members _before_ they make up their own quarrel. However, the names of John and Isabella's children will be coming from the book rather than the series.

I am getting ideas and inspiration for this story while trying in vain to study for an exam which is next week, so please reward my procrastination by reviewing and telling me what you think!

* * *

Emma was not downstairs when he first arrived at Hartfield. He felt relieved that he had not had to encounter her immediately.

Some time later, he had greeted and briefly talked to John and Isabella, and had thrown his eldest nephews and niece up to the ceiling until his arms were aching (but not until they were tired of the amusement), and Emma had still not come downstairs. He was relieved at that, though he could not help wondering at it a little.

When he saw Isabella rising to put the younger children to bed, and his brother starting to stand to go and assist young Henry and John in getting ready for dinner, he held out a hand to stay them. 'I'll go with them,' he offered, and then as they smiled in grateful acquiescence he let the children lead the way upstairs.

The children seemed to decide that such a quiet and orderly manner of proceeding was simply unacceptable, and so they began to hurry, looking back at him with expressions that told him they were expecting to be chased. He smiled. Well, he had to maintain his reputation as their favourite (albeit only) uncle; and so he obliged, and their party of five made their noisy way up the stairs, with thundering footsteps, much laughter and mock-frightened yells.

In hindsight he reflected that it was a good thing he had been the one chasing the children upstairs and not the one being chased himself, for young Henry, who had been in the front, had been carried headlong into Emma on the landing by his momentum. As she gently chastised the boys for running and gave her goodnights to little George and Bella, he took the opportunity to look anywhere but at her, and compose himself.

She kissed George and Bella. 'And now,' she said, 'you two should be in bed.'

She looked up at him then, a hopeful light in her eyes and the beginnings of a smile – _that _smile – on her lips, but before she could so much as say a word, he chivvied the children past her. 'Yes, come along, children – we must all do as your aunt says,' he said, determinedly not looking at her.

As he led them on, there was silence behind him, and he forced himself not to look back until he finally heard her footsteps again, making their way downstairs. He sighed.

He could not keep this up for much longer if he were in her company. He would be safe at the dinner table with the others there, but after that it would be best if he left for Donwell as soon as possible.

His mind was abstracted as he helped Henry and John tie their neck-cloths, and his thoughts were occupied in what course of action he should take.

It would not do to give in so soon, especially when he had seen no indication that she believed her interference had been wrong. Perhaps if he could show her that he was still displeased with what she had done, it would make her think about what he had seen in her conduct to reprove – and that might assist her in acknowledging the error to herself. He must just trust to time and reflection; he knew not how else to proceed, for in the past his reproofs and explanations had already been effective in bringing her around to the right way of thinking.

He would keep his distance – no matter how much it pained _him_, it was for _her _benefit; and as a partial old friend, that was reason enough for him.


	25. Overwhelming

**A/N:** Yes, Mr. Knightley is quite stubborn about not making up with Emma – but I don't see that working out very well for him ;-)

Would love to hear your thoughts, as always!

* * *

John Knightley was, in many respects, a good son-in-law. He did have a sincere, long-standing regard for Mr. Woodhouse, and had a real respect for the older gentleman. And yet his fault was his easily irritable temper, which sometimes left him out of patience with his father-in-law's foibles. This fault was the reason Mr. Knightley's attention was focused with some anxiety on his brother rather than Emma.

In this way, dinner had proven to be a better distraction than he could have hoped; but as the conversation turned to Mr. Woodhouse's regrets that the London Knightleys had visited Southend instead of coming to Hartfield, he began to be sorry for what he had wished. For now it appeared that it might have been better if he had spent the meal consumed by thoughts of Emma; at least that would have affected only himself, whereas John's irritation had the potential to make things uncomfortable for everyone.

Emma attempted more than once to change the flow of the conversation, laughingly begging that they would not make her miserable and envious by discussing the seaside which she had never seen, attempting to ask her nephews what they had been doing in their lessons recently, but all in vain.

John was not to be deterred. 'If Dr. Perry can tell me,' he said in a voice of very strong displeasure, 'how to convey a wife and five children a distance of a hundred and thirty miles with no greater expense or inconvenience than a distance of forty, I should be as willing to prefer Cromer to Southend as he could himself.'

Throughout this tirade Mr. Knightley had been watching Emma, who looked anxious, and had opened her mouth once or twice as if about to attempt a change of subject, but then she closed it again, looking miserably down at her plate, words having failed her.

His heart went out to her, and he knew that he must attempt himself to calm his brother. 'True, true,' he said quickly to John as soon as he had stopped speaking. 'That is a consideration indeed. But John, as to what I was telling you earlier about moving the path to Langham...' and then he talked with some determination on the subject for a minute or two until he was sure that his brother's temper had cooled.

Then, unable to stop himself, he glanced over at Emma, only to find that she had been looking at him. The expression in her eyes was one of wonder, and profound gratitude. She gave him a small smile, and he had to look away.

He took a deep breath, and then sighed. He couldn't do this anymore – the longing to be friends again, the desire to be able to talk with her once more in the old way, to be able to share laughter and smiles, was overwhelming, and he could fight it no longer.

He knew that once dinner was over, he would seek her out and speak to her, make up their quarrel. For all her faults and errors of judgment, Emma had an affectionate heart and an excellent understanding, as she had through her actions reminded him today – perhaps if instead of reprimanding her, he made his point more gently, she would come around.

But right now he hardly cared if she wouldn't. All he wanted, more than anything was to take her hand in his and be assured that they were once more partial old friends.


	26. At Peace

**A/N:** This drabble is a weird mix of the scene in the mini-series, book dialogue and my own imagination (the last has caused the addition of probably more UST than was there in this scene in either the book or the series).

Hope you enjoy – would of course love to hear your thoughts as always!

* * *

He had come into the softly lit sitting room with the intention of making friends with Emma once more, but beholding the enchanting picture she created sitting in the glow of the fire looking down lovingly at her baby niece in her arms, he knew that even had he been in a rage against her he would have forgiven her on the spot upon seeing her thus.

She looked up at his footsteps and smiled when she saw who it was. It was not an apologetic smile, nor was it playful and designed to procure his forgiveness; it was simply a friendly smile. The smile she usually gave him, the one which gave her eyes the warmth of a lifetime of shared memories.

Her next words convinced him that she was as sick of this coldness between them as he was. 'If only we could resolve our own quarrels as well as we resolve those disputes within our family, then we could be friends again.' She looked up at him hopefully, and he followed her cue to take a seat by her on the sofa.

Much as he had promised himself that he would not provoke her, he could not help giving one last gentle remonstrance. 'If you were as much guided by nature in your estimate of those outside the family, and as little under the power of whim and fancy in your dealings with them, we might never disagree.'

Although she looked at him with a mock-offended expression, her eyes smiled, showing that she had not taken it amiss. 'And of course our discordancies must always arise from _my_ being in the wrong.'

He could not help smiling; they had barely made up their quarrel and his Emma was already challenging him again. He himself would not have dared risk it before she began first. 'Yes,' he said, 'and reason good – I was sixteen years old when you were born.'

For as long as he could remember since Emma Woodhouse had come into his life, he had been watching over her, guiding her when he felt she needed it, making sure no harm came to her. And he knew that Emma, for all her merits, intelligence and quickness could sometimes be alarmingly naïve in her judgment of others, seeing only what she wanted to see.

'And I had the advantage of not being a pretty woman,' he continued, intending the insinuation that due to this fact she had been endlessly flattered by almost all around her. However, she looked up at him with a small, incredulous smile and wondering eyes – _you think I'm pretty?_ – and he coloured. Often as he had thought it to himself, he had never told her how beautiful she was, with the reasoning that she heard it often enough from everyone else.

He shook his head slightly to clear it, and tried to continue his point. 'I had the advantage also of not being a spoiled child,' he added hastily, making it clear that he had been talking about the factors which gave him a clearer judgment than her. She looked away, mouthing a silent _Oh_.

He sighed. He was doing a pathetic job of making up their quarrel. He deliberately restrained himself from babbling out an incoherent explanation that he did actually think her pretty – not just _pretty_, but one of the most beautiful women he'd ever seen – and that he had not meant to offend her. He was so unused to making speeches of that kind that he was sure the words would come out jumbled, sticking in his throat; it would no doubt be disastrous if he attempted it. Instead he laid his hand over hers and let his actions speak for him. 'Come, my dear Emma, let us be friends and say no more about it.'

She nodded, smiling gratefully, and for the first time in several weeks he felt completely at peace in the knowledge that they were once more partial old friends.


	27. No Longer a Child

**A/N:** Another "drabble" for you, if at 800 words it can even be counted as such. Hope you like what I'm trying to do in this one – please review and tell me what you think!

* * *

As Emma and Isabella sat conversing happily across the room from him, catching up on the time they had been apart, he took the opportunity to speak to John. 'I actually need your advice on a certain matter,' he said.

John gave his attention, some mild curiosity on his face. 'Is it about that dispute over where that fence should be placed? Since you wrote to me, I have looked it up and asked around, and I believe that legally, you're in the right when it comes to–'

He shook his head, amused at the assumption; but then interrupting, he said, 'No, no – it's not about the fence.' At that moment he looked over at Emma, accidentally catching her eye, and although he smiled back at her, he lowered his voice. 'It's quite something else.'

John, who had followed his gaze, was now more than mildly curious. 'Yes?'

'I have no idea what to get Emma for Christmas,' he admitted quietly.

John raised his eyebrows. 'Why so difficult to find her a present? And George, don't you think you've left it a little late? Christmas is in two days, after all.'

He shook his head. 'I do have something to give her, if it comes to that, but–' He stopped, and sighed. 'I never used to have trouble finding her something; but then once – I think it was three years ago – she unwrapped the new doll I had given her, and then she gave me one of her saucy looks and said, _It's a lovely doll, Mr. Knightley, but don't you think I am just a _little_ too old for it?_'

John burst out laughing. 'George, she would have been, what, eighteen then? Why on earth did you get her a child's toy?' He looked highly amused, but far from smiling back, his brother only fidgeted rather uncomfortably beside him.

'I don't know – perhaps it was because not so long before she _had_ been a child,' he said defensively. 'I liked it when Emma was a child – perhaps I just didn't want her to be in any hurry to grow up. You know, I remember her at only thirteen already looking forward to "coming out" and dancing at her first ball.'

John raised his eyebrows. 'A natural enough wish for a young girl.' Then he looked at his older brother seriously. 'George, I think that you're being a little unfair to Emma.'

Mr. Knightley was surprised. 'Me? How?'

His brother elaborated. 'At times you appreciate her lively mind and I've seen you bantering and sparring with her as an equal, and you expect her to evince the judgment and wisdom of an adult – and then at other times when it suits you, you admonish her or lecture her and treat her like a child once more. Perhaps you should decide once and for all how to treat her – is Emma a child, or is she not?'

John's words, though unexpected, rang true, and he looked across the room at Emma thoughtfully. At twenty-one, nobody except perhaps the doting Mr. Woodhouse could call her a child anymore, and she certainly did not _look_ like a child – her face and figure were decidedly womanly. And yet there _was _still something childlike about her, something a little naïve in the way she assumed the best of people. Elton was a case in point – it had clearly never occurred to Emma that his motives were mercenary and selfish. Perhaps it was from living such a sheltered life in Highbury, but it was so – and at such times he felt he _had_ to protect Emma just as he had when she had been a child.

Then he shook his head, returning his attention to the topic at hand. 'I will think about that,' he said, 'but what about the Christmas present? After giving her the doll, for the next two years I just gave her a scarf and a pair of gloves, and this year, if I can't think of anything else, I have a shawl to give her.'

John smiled. 'Scarf, gloves, shawl? Have you been taking Mr. Woodhouse's advice while shopping?' When Mr. Knightley didn't smile back, John quickly became more serious. 'Very well – in all seriousness, my advice is that you get her something which shows that you know her and that you put thought into getting a present for _her_. Perhaps there's something she's mentioned she wants, or something which you know she'd like.'

Mr. Knightley was silent, mulling it over in his mind, and he had to admit that John's advice was sound. He had to get her a present which would mean something to her – something that would tell her that he was a partial old friend.


	28. Most Unsuitable

**A/N:** And in this chapter, enter Frank (or at least the promise – or is that threat? – of Frank)! After all, poor Mr. Knightley is never allowed to be comfortable – he must go from worry to worry with hardly a rest in between.

Hope you like this one – please review and let me know your thoughts!

* * *

He only had two more days, including today, to think of and procure the perfect present for Emma, and his mind was still blank. He had to think of a gift that she would appreciate, and yet at the same time it had to be one that was proper for him to give her. The dilemma had occupied his mind ceaselessly since he had talked with John the previous night, and that morning at Hartfield he had found himself often looking at Emma intently as he tried to concentrate and think of what to get her.

That had been rather awkward, and he was almost sure she had noticed, for she often met his eyes curiously, though always quickly – almost uncomfortably – directing her gaze back to the painting – Harriet's portrait – which she was adding the finishing touches to. He was just relieved that he had not been obvious enough to provoke her into asking him why he stared.

He was still deep in thought when he realised that Mr. Weston was talking to him as they walked together to Randalls after the meeting of the parish council had finished. Rather guiltily, he brought his attention back to focus on the conversation. '…so we hope to have Frank with us at Christmas. Mrs. Weston is so glad, for she is eager to meet him herself, and no less eager to introduce him to Miss Woodhouse.'

That got his full attention, and thoughts of Emma's Christmas present were put aside for the moment. 'Oh?' he said carefully. Why was it so particular a point that Frank Churchill should be introduced to Emma? Everyone was always hearing about how handsome, charming, amiable and clever the young man was – was it possible that the Westons saw him as a match for Emma?

Mr. Weston hesitated for just a fraction too long before he answered. 'Well – Miss Woodhouse has always been very sympathetic to Mrs. Weston's apprehensions about meeting Frank; and then they are nearly of an age – two young people, you know–'

He broke off; Mr. Knightley was now convinced that the Westons had in mind a match between Emma and Churchill, and he found that he could not approve of it. Was Emma to be expected to leave her father to move hundreds of miles away to Enscombe in Yorkshire? Oh no, it would be a most unsuitable connection in that respect.

And why just in that respect? Who was to say Churchill possessed the qualities Emma's husband should have? Everyone was told that he was "charming" – and what was charm but flattery, flattery which would only do her harm by playing to her vanity? And Mr. Knightley could not approve of a young man who had not the common courtesy to pay a wedding visit to his father; if the young man could not do his duty by his parent, who was to say he would do his duty by his wife?

Oh no – Churchill would make the very worst sort of husband for Emma; he knew she would be thoroughly miserable if she married Churchill; he could not let that happen. After all, he was a partial old friend.


	29. Uncomfortable

**A/N:** A bit of trivia for this chapter – according to Regency etiquette, in a carriage a gentleman is not allowed to take the seat next to a lady unless he is her father, brother or husband. In the mini-series, John sat opposite Emma (though as her "brother" he had the right to sit next to her), and Elton climbed in next to her. From the expression on John's face you can tell he expected and intended Elton to sit next to him, as was proper.

Would love to know what you think, as always!

* * *

Notwithstanding the possibility of Frank Churchill attending the Westons' Christmas party, Mr. Knightley set off in a good mood. The previous day after thinking about almost nothing else he had struck upon the perfect idea for Emma's Christmas gift, and now it was safely wrapped and ready to give to her on the morrow when the whole family gathered at Hartfield to exchange gifts.

It had been a bit of a rush, as he had had to ride off to London as soon as the idea had occurred if he had wanted to reach the shops before they closed, but a hard ride had ensured that he was only just over two hours in getting there. It had not taken him long to find what he was looking for, and although he had had to guess a little as to the exact size – for of course he could not have gotten a perfect fit without alerting Emma as to the nature of his gift – he was fairly sure it would be right.

He hoped she would like it; he had tried to find something that would suit her taste – well, it had suited _his _taste, and he was sure that she would appreciate elegant simplicity just as much as he could. Well, he hoped she would.

He gave himself a mental shake. He had tried his best, and there was no use in fretting about it and second-guessing himself now. He would stop thinking about it, and simply enjoy the Westons' hospitality.

He dismounted from Bessie – who had been yearning for an outing and who had not been happy that he had chosen Pilot over her for the ride to London yesterday – and waited for the second Hartfield carriage which he could see coming up the drive. He would hand her out and they would walk in together as usual. He was not quite sure how it had happened, but over the years, they had sort of gravitated towards each other when arriving at social gatherings and it had become the unspoken order of the world that they would walk in together. Especially when his brother and sister were in Highbury, it seemed natural that John should pair up with Isabella and he with Emma.

He smiled as he saw Emma's face through the carriage window, but his smile almost instantly faded and his lips tightened as he saw Elton sitting next to her. He had known the man would be coming in the same carriage, but even he had not expected Elton to behave with such blatant impropriety as to sit next to Emma in the carriage when he was neither her father, brother nor her husband.

He could see that Emma was smiling and excited about the evening – and the prospect of seeing Frank Churchill? He hoped not – but he noticed her uncomfortable side glance at Elton. Perhaps he should have felt satisfied, felt a righteous sense of triumph that her misjudgments were haunting her now, but all he could feel was concern.

That she should be distressed by Elton's unwelcome attentions had never been his wish, even in the bitterest moments of their argument. Perhaps exposure to the presumptuous fool's misguided declaration would be good for her, but it was such a cruel lesson that he could not wish to see her subjected to it. As he handed a smiling Emma out of the carriage, he promised himself that if he could he would try to guard her from any such disastrous attempt. After all, he was a partial old friend.


	30. More Uncomfortable

**A/N:** Sorry it's been so long since I updated this. Uni started again last week, and it's been crazy and hectic so far. I have 8am to 5pm days most of the time, and already have a load of homework/assignments/reading to do. Fun stuff, I can tell you.

I'll do my best to keep updating though – hope you can do your best to review too! :)

* * *

Well, even if he had not walked in with Emma – Elton had had that pleasure, though happily it had been somewhat perfunctorily conferred – they had at least upheld their tradition of squabbling over the mode of his arrival. It never ceased to amuse him that she would unfailingly advocate that he flaunt his wealth in order to uphold his status as a "true gentleman". It made no sense for him to send for carriage horses from the Crown a day in advance to convey himself alone when he could perfectly easily make his own way in a far more pleasant journey on foot or on horseback.

The evening, which ought to have been wonderful – Frank Churchill was thankfully absent – was instead dreadful because of Elton's sniffing around poor Emma like an overeager spaniel. 'Are you sure you are quite warm enough, Miss Woodhouse? Or perhaps you are _too _warm, Miss Woodhouse? Do you think your father is quite comfortable, Miss Woodhouse? Allow me to fetch you a drink, Miss Woodhouse. No? Are you sure you are quite well, Miss Woodhouse? Of course, Miss Woodhouse. Yes, Miss Woodhouse. No, Miss Woodhouse. Exactly so, Miss Woodhouse.'

_Miss Woodhouse, Miss Woodhouse, Miss Woodhouse..._ No wonder poor Emma looked like she wished she could throttle the man, for all that she kept up a barrier of politeness, even of positive civility. Every now and then she tried to steer the man's thoughts towards Harriet who was ill, but to little avail. He always came back to Miss Woodhouse.

For some time he tried to keep Elton's conversation to himself, relentlessly asking his opinion on various matters they had all discussed in the last parish council meeting, finally allowing Emma some time of freedom from him.

She looked at him briefly, but then looked away quickly. He was not offended; he knew that under circumstances a little different he would have received a grateful smile, but now he knew that she was too mortified at her own error and his being right to acknowledge the service as she would have done.

His ears pricked as she began to speak to the Westons about Frank Churchill. 'I quite agree, Mr. Weston,' she said, in reply to him. 'Our party would indeed be complete if only Miss Smith and Mr. Frank Churchill were here.'

Even as he spoke to Elton, Mr. Knightley watched Emma's face as she listened to Mr. Weston talk about his son. The friendly curiosity on her face seemed perfectly genuine, and yet Emma's manners were impeccable, and she _would_ only appear interested, naturally, even if she were bored to death of hearing about the frivolous young man. Naturally.

'I am sorry that there should be anything like doubt in his being able to come,' said Emma, and he saw with sudden alarm that she looked genuinely disappointed. 'But I am disposed to side with you, Mr. Weston. If you think he will come, I shall think so too, for you know Enscombe.'

He returned his attention to Elton who was muttering something about wondering whether Mr. Woodhouse was quite comfortable in that chair, and asking Miss Woodhouse about it. As out of the corner of his eye, he saw the Westons' footman coming out to announce dinner, thinking quickly he said, 'Perhaps you should go and ask _Mr. _Woodhouse.'

Elton had no choice but to agree and reluctantly go to it, trapped by his own ingratiating civility. As the footman announced dinner, Mr. Knightley – trying very hard not to smile triumphantly – made his way over to Emma to lead her in.

Emma, who had been looking about the room anxiously as if hoping to avoid Elton for fear of having to sit next to him all throughout dinner, looked greatly relieved to see him. She took his arm with a grateful sigh, and managed a small smile, though it quickly faded as she looked down, unable to meet his eyes.

He pressed the arm within his lightly, to let her know that she need fear no recriminations from him. He trusted in her serious spirit to lead her right now that she had realised her misjudgment, and he would not add to her misery with his own lectures when they were thus rendered unnecessary. He would instead just offer his support when she needed it. After all, he was a partial old friend.


	31. Even More Uncomfortable

**A/N:** Okay, this one is _way _too long to be a drabble, but I couldn't find a logical break point, and I couldn't really think of any more bits to edit out.

Thanks to all who have reviewed so far, and to those who have added this to alerts or favourites – I'd love it if you guys could also drop me a review and tell me what you think of it!

* * *

Mr. Knightley could not remember the last time he had felt this frustrated. His plan of shadowing Elton and keeping him as much as possible away from Emma, was fast disintegrating. After dinner was over and the ladies had made their way to the drawing room while the gentlemen remained, Mr. Woodhouse had not lingered long with them, having nothing to add to their conversation and a great desire to get back to his chair before the fire; and Mr. Elton had followed not five minutes after.

To his irritation, Mr. Knightley could not follow him, for he was obliged to listen to what Mr. Weston was telling him about his son. It was awful: to have Elton having escaped his watch going to no doubt bother Emma once more, and to have to politely listen to Weston's calculations for how soon that wretched Frank Churchill could be in Highbury was almost more than he could bear with a tolerable appearance of composure.

'He has those to please who must be pleased and who – between ourselves – are only to be pleased by a good many sacrifices,' said Mr. Weston. 'But now I have no doubt of seeing him here the second week of January.'

Rather uncharitably, Mr. Knightley wished the young man's aunt would always prove to be as cross and intractable as she seemed on the point of allowing him to visit his father. A visit any time in the next decade would be too soon for him. Such a frivolous, airheaded young man would be a bad influence on Emma; she did not need to pick up his ways and habits; and she _certainly_ did not need additional flattery from such a source.

Still he nodded politely as Mr. Weston spoke, and made all the right noises of agreement and sympathy, wishing that the others would soon decide to make their way to the drawing room. He would not put it past Elton to have dropped strong hints of his ambitions towards Emma by now, and he knew that such an occurrence would make her dreadfully uncomfortable.

Still, perhaps it was a good thing. Now that she was aware of that man's astonishing arrogance in raising his eyes to her, she would regulate her behaviour towards him, and hopefully her coldness would deter him before he made an outright declaration.

Finally as they all made their way into the drawing room, he saw at once that matters were just as bad as he had feared. Elton was sitting on the sofa in between Emma and Mrs. Weston, close enough to Emma to make it slightly improper (and utterly clear that he had not been invited to sit there), and just at that moment, he exclaimed, 'So scrupulous for others and yet so careless for herself! Is this fair, Mrs. Weston? Have I not some right to complain?'

This last, although addressed to Mrs. Weston, had been said while looking soulfully into Emma's shocked and indignant eyes. Mr. Knightley's face darkened and he had to deliberately stop his hands from clenching into fists. That man's behaviour was intolerable – could he not see how unwelcome his advances were?

Thankfully at that moment there was a diversion in the form of John's rather unkindly bringing it to Mr. Woodhouse's attention that it was snowing outside, a piece of news which immediately excited all the older gentleman's nervous sensibilities. 'What is to be done, my dear Emma? What is to be done?' He looked to her for comfort, though all her reassurances as to the safety of the carriages, the reliability of the horses and the excellence of James' driving revived him only a little.

Leaving Mr. Woodhouse to his alarm, Emma to his comfort, Isabella to her worries about getting back to her children and John to his needling of his wife and father-in-law's fears, he walked with a purposeful step to the door and let himself out. A cursory walk down the drive told him that the snow was hardly even covering the ground and would probably clear up within minutes, but knowing that this would not be enough to restore Mr. Woodhouse's peace of mind, he walked further down the road and sought and received a confirmation of his opinion from the trustworthy James.

As he opened the front door again, he found an anxious Emma waiting for him on the other side, and he was quick to reassure her as well as the rest of the room. 'I've just been down as far as the Highbury Road, and the snow is hardly above half an inch anywhere – indeed in places it's not even enough to whiten the ground. There is no danger of anyone being marooned here.'

He saw Emma looking over at her father, who still looked troubled, and he smiled ruefully. 'Your father will not be easy,' he said to her quietly. 'Why do you not go?'

She acquiesced readily. 'I am ready, if the others are.'

'Shall I ring the bell for the coaches?'

She gave him a grateful smile. 'Yes, do.'

Those were the only words they had exchanged the whole evening, and yet they almost made up for his previous feelings of unease and irritation. In so few words they had managed to settle matters like rational adults while the others were still dithering about. He was glad he and Emma had always been able to understand one another so well; but then they were partial old friends.


	32. Beyond Uncomfortable

**A/N:** And the saga continues! Hope you enjoy this installment – please review.

* * *

As soon as the first carriage came into the driveway at Randalls, Mr. Knightley and John stepped forward to assist Mr. Woodhouse into it, and make sure he was quite comfortable and not unduly fretful about the snow, for he was always the first object upon such occasions. 'I only hope James can navigate through it,' he kept saying, 'if there is not too much, it may not be unsafe. If there is not too much, we might eventually arrive at home in one piece.'

This was Mr. Woodhouse being optimistic. Under any other circumstances, Isabella would have been one of the first to soothe her father, but her worries for her children, who might be snowed in at Hartfield without their mother, made her unequal to offer comfort to anyone else. John smiled ruefully at his brother before climbing into their carriage himself and patiently beginning to offer the various reassurances both his wife and his father-in-law needed at that moment.

Mr. Knightley smiled in grim approval. It was a pity that it took an episode of John's ill-humour to make him ashamed of himself and solicitous for his wife and father-in-law's comfort. To be sure at times Mr. Woodhouse's foibles could get tiring, but one had to remember his kindness and his longstanding friendship with the Knightleys upon such occasions – these factors surely entitled him to some measure of patience.

By the time he turned back to retrieve Bessie and set off himself, he was sorry to see that Emma had left already. He had hoped to hand her into the carriage himself and say a proper goodnight, but it seemed that it was not to be.

Well, no matter. He would see her on the morrow anyway for Christmas, and he would present her with his specially chosen, age-appropriate gift, and hopefully she would like it and appreciate the thought behind it.

As he began his ride back to Donwell, he shivered slightly at the brisk wind. Even though the snow had almost stopped, it was still quite cold. He thought of Elton walking back to the vicarage in this weather, and, reprehensible as it probably was, he could not hold back an amused smile – perhaps the weather would _cool_ his ardour.

Then he remembered that John and Emma had given him a lift to the dinner party, and were probably conveying him back, and he sighed, slightly disappointed.

Suddenly he frowned. _John_ and Emma could not have given Elton a ride home, because John had very naturally gone in the carriage with Isabella and Mr. Woodhouse, which meant...

'Oh Lord...' _Emma_ was in a carriage _alone_ with that man. He would probably think it was the perfect opportunity.

For a moment he had a mad urge to follow the carriage and get in as a – rather belated – chaperone. But then practicalities forced him to reconsider. Even if he could catch up with the carriage in time, he could not just abandon Bessie in the middle of the road, and in any case it was probably already too late.

Elton would have spoken by now, and Emma's mortification would be complete. He sighed. It was what he had tried to prevent all evening, only to be thwarted by attending to Mr. Woodhouse for a moment – the same trap he had set for Elton earlier!

Well, he would see Emma tomorrow, and he would make a point of _not_ lecturing her. He knew she would not need it, and that she would be feeling wretched about the whole business. She would need comfort and support, and he was ready to offer it. After all, he was a partial old friend.


	33. In Need of Cheering

**A/N:** The book totally skips over Christmas, so the Christmas drabbles will be almost entirely invented by me, with perhaps one or two series influences.

Please review and let me know what you think of this chapter!

* * *

When he arrived at Hartfield the next morning, he had joined John and the children who were playing in the snow, hoping that Emma would come out and join them as she had done without fail, year after year. However, over half an hour had passed and there was no sign of her.

He and John were crouched behind a short hedge to shelter themselves from the snowballs which were flying everywhere. 'Where's Emma?' he asked his brother. 'She never misses the Knightleys' Christmas snowfight.'

John shrugged, only mildly curious. 'Perhaps she feels she's too grown-up and ladylike for it now.' Then as one of the boys' snowballs went awry and hit a window – not breaking it, but still causing a disturbance – John hurriedly rose to impress upon them the importance of not doing so again in case they hit the window of the room in which their grandfather sat, for fear of giving him a start. Already he did not like the idea of the children playing outside in the snow for so long, and if he got any idea that they were playing such a violent game of throwing compacted balls of snow directly at one another, he might worry himself sick.

Mr. Knightley was left behind the hedge to ponder his brother's comment about Emma, but he could not accept it. Emma was not like that – when it came to their family, she did not hold any airs of ladylike elegance and genteel disdain of the childrens' pursuits. In fact she could throw snowballs with a dead accuracy none of them could equal, and they had all spent many a happy Christmas Day in such play.

If she was not out with them today, could it be because she felt unequal to facing him after what had happened last night? After all, he was the only person apart from herself and Elton who knew – or at least, who could guess accurately – what had taken place in that carriage. Perhaps it was also her dread of having to disappoint Harriet, whose hopes she had misguidedly fuelled, if not outright created.

He raised his head above the top of the hedge slightly, trying to get a view of the room he guessed to be Emma's. He thought he could see the flicker of a fire in the grate in that room, but no person apparent – ah! There she was; she had just walked to the window to watch the children at play, and a small smile flickered over her face before fading.

Even from the distance he could see that her mood was low; she moved slowly without any of her usual energy, the slump of her shoulders indicated her dejection, and even the antics of the children failed to make her smile.

He stood so that she could see him, and when he was sure her gaze was on him, he waved, so that she could know he had no intention of making her feel worse by lecturing her. He could trust her to her own judgment, and he knew that she had learned from her mistake as the adult she now was. She smiled slightly in acknowledgement.

He was still waving energetically up at her when the unexpected snowball caught him squarely and sharply in the centre of his chest. He clutched his chest in exaggerated alarm, looking over at a laughing Henry whose aim had been true. Then, for his nephew's amusement, still clutching his chest, he fell dramatically backwards into the snow.

Before he hit the ground, he saw Emma with a hand over her mouth to cover her giggles at his antics, and he smiled, glad to have lightened her mood at least a little. After all, he was a partial old friend.


	34. Out of Concern

**A/N:** There's no pleasure greater or guiltier than pre-exam updating – so please review as a reward so that I may neglect my studies for fanfic more often in the future (I'm kidding... sort of)!

* * *

When they all trooped back inside, energy spent, cheeks pink, noses like ice and thoroughly happy, he made his way over to Emma, who was sitting a little apart from her father and sister, gazing down affectionately at her little namesake who was in her arms.

The two Emmas situated thus made an enchanting picture, and he thought it became her very well. She had always had a way with children, and her nephews and nieces all adored her. Whatever her other faults, they did not lie in this domain. She was the perfect aunt: able to maintain discipline without dampening high spirits and killing fun, able to come down to their level and join in their play but also able to correct them when they erred.

She looked up at him and smiled as he sat in the chair adjacent to hers. He was glad to see that her mood had lifted somewhat from earlier; perhaps she felt as he did – that when there was snow gently falling, cheerful fires blazing, children playing, babies happily gurgling and family all around, that all had to be well with the world. Moments like these made him happy to be alive, and if only Emma could find it in her to enjoy the day as well, he would not be able to improve upon it.

'Are you well, Emma?' he asked quietly.

She stiffened slightly. 'Why do you ask?' She was not looking at him, instead seemingly absorbed in holding out her finger for baby Emma to grasp.

He did not wish to make her feel worse about the whole ordeal than she already did; it had not been his intention to elicit her confession or rub in the fact that he had been right and she had been wrong, and he wished to make that clear to her. 'You did not come out to play in the snow as we do every year,' he said. After a moment in which she said nothing, he offered her a lifeline. 'I thought maybe you were ill?'

She gratefully took it. 'Yes, I had a rather bad headache.' She looked up at him, and he could tell that she knew that he knew. The truth hung in the air between them, but she would not say it, and he was willing to follow her lead and remain silent. 'I would be grateful, Mr. Knightley,' she said quietly, 'if you would be so good as to not mention it to Father. It has passed now, and I would not want to worry him unnecessarily.'

He nodded, glad to attend to her words if it would bring her peace of mind. After all, he was a partial old friend.


	35. The Nature of Power

**A/N:** _Emma _is widely considered to be set in either 1813-14 or 1814-15, but to make some of the dialogue in this chapter work, I'm sort of disregarding either this fact, or real historical dates.

Some trivia: German-born Queen Charlotte (wife of King George III and mother of the Prince Regent aka George IV) was supposedly the first to bring the concept of the Christmas tree to England, even though it was Prince Albert (Queen Victoria's husband) who popularised it.

Re: my playing around with dates – by 1814 King George III was no longer ruling England (due to mental illness), and his son George IV had stepped in as the regent. Plus Queen Charlotte first introduced the Christmas tree in 1801. So we're assuming either that _Emma _is set in 1802, or that history has been delayed some 12 years.

Please let me know what you think of this chapter!

* * *

After dinner was over, he sat admiring the childrens' handiwork aloud for their gratification, but he really was genuinely impressed. Their contribution to the decorations of the room was truly magnificent – it was not like anything he had seen before. They had decorated a small fir tree with strings of almonds and raisins, coloured paper decorations, small toys and the whole was illuminated by actual lighted wax candles.

As Emma came to sit on the floor beside him, he turned to her. 'Where did they get the idea?' he asked, genuinely intrigued.

She smiled. 'The boys saw a picture in the paper of a tree of Queen Charlotte's, which was decorated like this last year, and they spent the whole year lamenting that Christmas was already over so they could not try it.'

He thought he had a vague memory of seeing the picture himself. 'So they thought they would have a Christmas fit for a prince?' he smiled.

'Not _just _a prince,' Emma corrected him emphatically, and then she smiled at little Bella who was sitting next to her. 'A _queen_ too, who is _higher_ than a mere prince – is she not, Bella?'

Bella grinned hugely and nodded her little head enthusiastically, while young Henry and John good-naturedly protested their own claims, little George joining in, not quite understanding the dispute, but happy to take his brothers' side all the same.

Mr. Knightley grinned. If that was how Emma wished to play, he could match her. Standing, he lifted a giggling George onto his shoulders so that the little boy was now in the highest position in the room. 'Ah, but Emma, you forget _King_ George up here – _ruler _of all England; with more authority than either queen or prince.'

Emma replied immediately. 'The queen is the king's wife – she should therefore be his equal.'

He raised an eyebrow. 'Should be, but in terms of who holds more governing power, she is not.'

Emma rose as well, perhaps feeling the disadvantage of having him tower over her while they debated. Of course even when she stood he still towered over her. His grin widened – times like these, he was even more glad than usual that he was a man and Emma was a woman.

'It is my opinion, Mr. Knightley,' she said airily as she straightened some of the decorations on the tree, 'that no matter who holds power in an official light, the person who holds the true power in the house is the one who arranges the menu for meals, for she – and inevitably it is always a _she_ – runs the household. Without her, the place would be in chaos.'

There was logic there, undoubtedly. In every couple he could think of – the Westons, John and Isabella, the Gilberts, the Coles, the Perrys – the wife's desires and decisions were what guided the husband's. Perhaps not outwardly, but one could be sure that when one of these men mentioned some plan they wished to follow, it was really their wife's wish. Mr. Weston's plan to limit his Christmas party to select close friends instead of the whole of Highbury was obviously Mrs. Weston's plan; Mr. Cole's desire to improve his house was really his wife's; Mr. Perry's wish for a new carriage was really Mrs. Perry's wish.

'That's all very well, Emma,' he said, 'but what about me? I am truly master of Donwell.'

She looked at him shrewdly. 'That may be true, Mr. Knightley, but tell me, do you arrange your own menus?'

He began indignantly, 'I'll have you know that on occasion I actually...' Emma was looking at him, eyebrow raised, looking extremely sceptical and highly amused. He coloured. 'Very well, Mrs. Hodges does it.' Then he added rather defensively, 'But I do not think that I am under Mrs. Hodges' power!' He had meant "power" in a purely political sense, and only realised how it sounded after he said it.

Emma laughed heartily at the implication that he could be captivated by his stout, stern housekeeper who had to be at least twenty years his senior.

Mr. Knightley was glad to see her laughing and happy after all she had been through yesterday, but honestly, there was a limit to how much ribbing he could endure in one sitting. 'For your information, I am under _nobody's _power,' he said, rather crossly.

Emma wiped away the last tears of laughter, and she placed a placating hand on his arm. 'I am glad of it,' she smiled. 'Remain that way – never waste an extra thought on someone else; never cater to her whims and fancies; never allow her to insinuate herself into your heart where she can then have the power to govern your actions.'

As she spoke, the thought occurred to him that Emma had already attained all this from him, but he was not unduly bothered by the fact. It seemed somehow natural and right that she had, and he would rather it were her than anyone else. After all, they were partial old friends.


	36. Past and Present

**A/N:** Here's an almost-1000 word drabble for you, LOL...

In return, please review if you're reading this – I'd love to hear from all of you!

* * *

Exchanging Christmas presents had begun with the children. Thankfully his nephews and niece were all delighted with what he had given them: Henry (who fancied himself an explorer) was highly pleased with the silver compass and book of maps, John (who was just learning how to ride and greatly enjoying it) had loved his new riding boots and whip, George was already happily playing with his new set of marbles and Bella was delighted with her new doll, and he was sure that baby Emma appreciated her new toys, even if she could not express it to him in as many words.

The adult Emma, who had happened to be near him while Bella was opening the present, had shot him a playful smile. 'Oh dear,' she said, 'I believe Bella has opened _my _present by mistake.'

He could not help colouring slightly even as he laughed. 'Emma, that was _three_ years ago, and I have not done anything like it since.' Then he sighed. 'Am I ever going to live that down?'

Emma had smiled over her shoulder as she had walked away to give John and Isabella the presents she had gotten for them. 'Oh, I think not,' she said. 'You have known me all my life and know all about my freaks and nonsense; it is my misfortune that you have been grown up and sensible ever since I can remember. I must therefore carefully preserve whatever memory I have of _your _lapses, whenever I am lucky enough to witness them.'

Was he really as old as that speech made him sound? _Grown up and sensible ever since she could remember_... Well, it was true, he supposed. He had been nineteen or twenty around the time when she would have begun to retain her memories. But still it did not _feel _like he was all that many years her senior. She had always been such a precocious child, had always seemed somewhat older than her years; and he, being a bachelor and therefore not evolving from the additional responsibilities of being a husband and father, had felt as if he were ten years younger than he was for a while now.

It could also be explained by the fact that she had been his intellectual equal for some time now, and the gap between them had narrowed considerably. Or so he felt; he wondered if she could feel that shift too, or if he was still the same stuffy older family friend to her.

He was rather glad at the next moment to be jolted out of this rather depressing train of thought as Emma called his name. When he came to her side, she handed him a cylindrical package wrapped festively. However, she said nothing save for wishing him a Merry Christmas, and stood silently, watching almost anxiously as he began to open it, highly curious to know what she had given him.

When he uncovered the cylindrical storage tube, he knew it must be one of her sketches or paintings, and he wondered what it was of, and when she had done it. The only one he had known her to have done recently was of Harriet Smith, and he was fairly sure she was not presenting him with a watercolour of Harriet.

He unrolled the painting with a curiosity all alive to see it, and was astonished to see that it was a portrait of himself, from the torso upwards against the background of Hartfield's drawing room. He clearly had not been looking straight at her when she had been taking the likeness, and he was instead looking a little to the side, with a small smile on his face as he listened to someone – presumably Mr. Woodhouse – speaking.

He was impressed; it was undoubtedly her best painting yet. The likeness was almost absolute, and her observant eye had caught certain things in his posture and expression which told the viewer more certainly than mere preciseness of feature that this was a portrait of _him_. And – best of all – she had presented him as he was, as she saw him, without altering a single feature, without changing or 'improving' anything. Finally she seemed to have learned that the best likenesses were the truthful ones.

A warm smile spread across his face and he looked up to see her biting her lip, anxiously awaiting his verdict. 'It's wonderful, Emma,' he said, 'truly. The likeness is almost perfect, and your composition and style are very well done as always.' She breathed a sigh of relief and her face glowed in delight at his praise. His smile widened into a grin. 'I just have one question – _when _did you take the sketch? I don't recall sitting for you.'

Emma raised a playful eyebrow. 'Ah, Mr. Knightley, you have always refused to sit for me, so I found I had to take you by stealth. It was done one of the times you came to call on us a while before Christmas. While you were talking to Father, I made a quick draft, and used that as a point of reference – but it was mostly done from memory.'

Suddenly he remembered the occasion – it had been that day when he had been frantically trying to think of what to give Emma himself. 'I thought you were working on Harriet's portrait,' he said.

Emma laughed. 'I see I had nothing to fear – I was afraid you knew what I was upto, you looked over at me so often.'

He smiled. 'I was actually trying to think of what to get you for Christmas.'

'So what _did _you get me?'

He walked over to the tree to get it and returned to her. 'See for yourself,' he said, handing the wrapped present to her.

He hoped she would like it – he was sure she would like it. After all, they were partial old friends.


	37. Present and Future

**A/N:** It must be admitted that just as Mr. Knightley is anxious about his gift and terrified that Emma might not like it, so am I with you guys. I did have this gift in mind all along when I started writing that subplot, but I don't know if it will live up to all the hype. I have a feeling many of you are expecting some grand, romantic gesture, but IMO that's so not Mr. Knightley's style.

Well... tell me what you think, anyway!

* * *

Emma took the gift from him, but although her eyes were alight with curiosity, she opened the wrapping paper very carefully so as not to tear it. He could not help feeling amused – in any case the paper would be thrown away, so what was the use in carefully preserving it? It was almost as if she were opening the present as slowly as possible so as to increase the suspense for herself.

Finally the unwrapped gift was in her hands, and was revealed to be...

...a dollhouse.

She looked up at him in a disbelief which had some indignation in it. His smile quickly faded. 'That's the joke present,' he said hastily, and Emma laughed in relief.

He handed her a second wrapped package, which she took, rolling her eyes at his antics. She unwrapped this one somewhat quicker than the first one, as if impatient to see its contents. For a moment she said nothing as she held it in her hands. 'It's... very nice, Mr. Knightley,' she said finally, her eyes still on the shawl. 'Very practical.'

'That's the Mr. Woodhouse-approved present,' he said quickly, and then he retreated in the direction of the tree. 'Wait just a minute,' he said over his shoulder.

However, before he went to get it, he had seen the light of hope in her eyes and he was dreadfully afraid that he would disappoint her. Through his string of preliminary presents he had built up her anticipation; and after having put so much thought into what he should get her, the possibility that she might not like it did not bear thinking of.

Emma smiled up at him, her eyes wearing an expression of amused affection as he came back and handed her the third wrapped package. '_Three_ presents for me this year,' she said, wondering aloud. 'What is so special about this Christmas?'

He rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly. 'Partly to make up for the failure of the past _three _years, and partly in the hope that I will be _third _time lucky this year.'

She tore the paper completely on this one, so quickly did she unwrap it. For a moment she looked surprised, and then she smiled in genuine delight and then her face suddenly took on an expression of dismay.

His heart sank. 'What is it? What's the matter?'

She looked up at him. 'Oh Mr. Knightley, it's _beautiful_, but...'

'But?'

She looked sadly down at the sleek, panelled, glass-fronted mahogany picture frame. 'I already encouraged Mr. Elton to ride to London and get a frame for Harriet's portrait. In my stupidity, I thought his eagerness to do so was further proof of his feelings for Harriet.'

'Ah,' he said, and then he bit his lip.

For a moment she looked rather gloomy, but then her eyes lit up with an idea. 'You must use it to frame my portrait of you,' she said eagerly. 'It is the same size as my watercolour of Harriet, so it will be a perfect fit.'

He laughed a little because he knew not how else to react. 'Emma, how can _I _take and keep my present for _you_?'

She frowned slightly. 'Well, it would be ridiculous for me to keep an empty frame while you keep a portrait without a frame. The two belong together – we cannot keep them separate like that.'

For a moment he puzzled over the dilemma, but then he felt the spark of an idea. 'Keep them together at Hartfield,' he said suddenly. 'That way you can keep your present, and I will see my present almost every day anyway.'

She smiled up at him in delight. 'That is a wonderful idea,' she cried. Then she laughed. 'I must admit, your plan suits me best after all – I get to keep not only my present from you, but also my painting of you, which I was loath to part with, even though I had made it for you – I think it is my best yet.'

He could not remain gloomy about the mistiming of his gift when she was smiling and happy anyway. 'Well, you did have the best subject,' he quipped, smiling.

She rolled her eyes, but smiled up at him affectionately, taking his hand. 'Thank you,' she said sincerely.

'You did like it, then?'

She nodded, smiling genuinely. 'Of course.' Then she raised a playful eyebrow. 'And I am flattered that you think my portrait of Harriet is worth framing, even if I had "made her too tall".' At the last words she affected a lower pitch and a certain tone which sounded uncannily like his own voice.

His eyes danced in amusement, as he replied, affecting shock, 'What? Certainly not too tall, not in the least too tall! Consider, she was sitting – which naturally presents a different – which gives exactly the idea – er, ah – proportions, you know; proportions and foreshortening, points of distance, the angle of viewing – will that do, Miss Woodhouse, or must I flatter you still more before you are in love with me?'

Emma laughed heartily at his almost cruelly accurate mockery of Mr. Elton. Finally she wiped the tears of laughter from her eyes. 'Oh dear,' she said, smiling, 'I probably should have pretended not to understand that.'

He smiled rather guiltily, but he was glad that she had not. All such pretenses and false airs had never been necessary between them. After all, they were partial old friends.


	38. Most Deplorable

**A/N:** Some Frank time in the next few chapters! Hope you like – please review and let me know your thoughts.

* * *

After John and Isabella had returned to London, life began to return to normal. With Mr. Elton at least having the sense to remove himself from Highbury for the time being, it was almost as if the events of the past few months – Emma's misguided matchmaking plans, Elton's misguided pursuit of Emma – had not occurred. Finally he would no longer have to worry about Emma being hurt by Elton, or misleading Harriet.

And even if he still felt horribly guilty every time he met Robert Martin's dejected eyes, in all other respects his world seemed to have returned to how it had been before all the unpleasant disturbances in the form of Elton's nonsense and Emma's matchmaking had occurred.

'So I have heard from Frank once more,' Mr. Weston was saying as he visited at Randalls, and his heart sank. Could it be that just after he had thought life would be peaceful once more, that idle young man was going to arrive and disturb everything again?

'Unfortunately he cannot come as soon as he previously thought,' continued Mr. Weston, and Mr. Knightley frowned. It was wrong of the young man to continuously put off visiting his father, a duty which should be fulfilled with double the amount of delicacy considering that there was also a duty to the new Mrs. Weston in the case.

'His aunt is so ill, you see,' said Mrs. Weston quickly, having seen his frown. 'He writes with the strongest regret, and hopes to join us at the first available opportunity.'

He hastily made his features more neutral to avoid giving Mrs. Weston pain by appearing to think badly of her husband's son. And yet his opinion was unchanged – the young man _ought _to have come sooner and that was the end of it; if he had been able to leave his ill aunt to go gadding about to watering places like Weymouth, then he should have been able to come to Highbury.

He was sure that sensitive Mrs. Weston, though putting up a brave face and trying to convince herself of the truth of the young man's excuses, was actually inwardly hurt by this neglect by the son, not only of his father, but of his father's new wife. It savoured either of disrespect or disapproval, and he did not know which was worse.

Surely Emma would never like the young man who could be so unfeeling towards Mrs. Weston when he ought to have shown her a son's respect in addition to some common courtesy. Surely his treatment of Mrs. Weston would be her standard if ever she were to consider the fellow in the light of someone she might marry.

But he knew Emma was sensible – surely she would never fall for the frivolous, flattering, flighty ways of that feckless young man (for such was what he appeared to be from his fine, flourishing letters)? He was sure she would never tolerate such foppery and folly.

Hopefully it would not even come to her seeing the man as a marriageable option. He would not talk of the young man to her; he should not bring him to her mind oftener than was necessary. _He _should not unwittingly aid the development of her feelings for that man when he knew what a deplorable union it would be for her. After all, he was a partial old friend.


	39. Obstinate 1

**A/N:** Debate over Frank's merits and faults, part 1! Please let me know what you think!

* * *

He had not expected that his resolution _not_ to talk of Frank Churchill with Emma would break down so soon, or so completely.

The very next day at Hartfield she told him what he had heard from the Westons yesterday, that Churchill was unable to pay his visit to Highbury, and she proceeded to say a good deal about the advantage of such an addition to their society; the pleasure of looking at somebody new; the gala to Highbury entire which his coming would excite; the reprehensible conduct of the Churchills in keeping him away.

He could not restrain himself; he must say something in response to all this. He took a deep breath, and tried to speak as indifferently as he could. He would show her that to _him_ at least, the young man's coming was of no real consequence. 'The Churchills are very likely in fault – but I dare say he might come if he would.'

She looked at him in surprise. 'Why should you say so? He wishes exceedingly to come, but his uncle and aunt will not spare him.'

He couldn't believe she would fall for the simpering excuses in his letters. He tried to sketch out for her a more accurate depiction of Frank Churchill – proud, luxurious and selfish – than the golden apparition Mr. Weston's praise and her own expectation seemed to have conjured up for her. 'If Frank Churchill had wanted to see his father, he would have contrived it between September and January. A man at his age cannot be without the means of doing as much as that. It is impossible.'

After debating some more on the degree and convenient selectivity of the young man's liberty when it came to gadding about any idle haunt in the kingdom, Emma's defence grew warmer. 'It is very unfair to judge of anybody's conduct without an intimate knowledge of their situation. We ought to be acquainted with Enscombe, and Mrs. Churchill's temper, before we pretend to decide upon what her nephew can do.'

He felt like he was talking to a solid wall; nothing he was saying seemed to be making its way to her understanding. He knew that Emma, for all her whims and fancies, had always had a fair modicum of good sense; how was it that this wretched young man was corrupting her judgment already, before he had even arrived? 'There is one thing, Emma,' he said warmly, 'which a man can always do if he chooses, and that is his duty.' And then he told her in no uncertain terms exactly what Churchill would have said, how he would have insisted on doing his duty, if he had had any backbone to speak of. 'If he would tell his aunt as much,' he finished, 'in a tone of decision becoming a man, there would be no opposition made to his going.'

Emma laughed merrily; a sound he normally loved, but which now grated on his mood, for it told him she had not taken to heart anything he had said. 'No,' she said, smiling, 'but there might be some made to his coming back again. Nobody but you, Mr. Knightley, would imagine it possible!'

'Depend upon it, Emma,' he said grimly, 'a sensible man would find no difficulty in it.' He tried to convey to her the beneficial effect such conduct would have on the Churchills. 'Respect for right conduct is felt by everybody. If he would act in this sort of manner on principle, consistently, regularly, their little minds would bend to his.'

'I rather doubt that,' Emma said. And then she smiled up at him playfully. '_You _are very fond of bending little minds, I know; but where little minds belong to rich people in authority, I think they have a knack for swelling out until they are as unmanageable as great ones.'

What could he reply to first? Her remark about his fondness for bending little minds clearly related to his guidance of her – but her mind was neither little, nor had it ever bent easily to his; in fact, of late it was becoming more difficult than ever to convince her of what was sensible and true. It occurred to him to say that her pride in not bending to him and obstinately keeping her own opinions even when they were wrong was not a trait of strength, but rather of weakness, but he did not wish for another estrangement from her like after they had argued over Harriet Smith and Robert Martin.

Instead he roused himself to address her arguments about the Churchills. Yes, he would continue to talk of that man to her, contrary to all his resolutions, if it meant he could convince her of what was true and right. After all, he was a partial old friend.


	40. Obstinate 2

**A/N:** Sorry for the long delay in updates, guys. Exams – nuff said.

To Emma (reviewer, not character :D) – I'm glad you found the earlier chapters fun, and I'm sorry you didn't enjoy the rest of it. I'm afraid I like the pacing too much to change it (delving into the details is fun for me), but if you want to PM me with some more detailed concrit, I'd be glad to hear from you, to see how I can improve this story to make it less 'contrived' (don't really know what you mean by that exactly).

* * *

Emma persisted in her defence of the young man almost as fiercely as if she were defending herself. 'I wish you would try to understand what an amiable young man may feel in directly opposing those whom, as child and boy, he has been looking up to all his life.'

This was ridiculous – she was talking about twenty-three-year-old Frank Churchill as if he were a timid child the age of their nephews. He shook his head firmly. 'I can allow for the fears of the child, but not of the man. As he became rational he ought to have shaken off all that was unworthy in their authority. Had he begun as he ought, there would have been no difficulty now.'

For the next five minutes they continued to debate, and he felt like he was repeating himself – and so was she – they were canvassing the same points over again; she insisted that Frank Churchill was not in the least to blame for his neglect of the Westons, and he asserted that the young man was, and if he had any decency, he would have been here by now.

Finally she looked at him in a mixture of exasperation and bewilderment, as if she did not know the reason why they had spent the best part of the last twenty minutes arguing about the possible merits and faults of Frank Churchill. To tell the truth, he did not know either. 'Why are you so determined to dislike him before you've even met him?' she demanded.

He sighed in frustration, before speaking the predominant thought in his mind. 'Emma, perhaps if you thought and spoke of him a little less, then I might like him the more.'

She stared. 'Why on earth should my opinion of him influence the formation of yours?'

_How can it not?_ He opened his mouth, but found he did not know what to say.

After a slightly uncomfortable pause, she let it go. 'Let us speak of something else. We are both prejudiced; you against, I for him; and we have no chance of agreeing till he is really here.'

'Prejudiced!' Of all the ridiculous accusations – as if he had nothing better to do than to sit down everyday to think up malicious slanders against the man. 'I am not prejudiced,' he snapped. 'He is a person I never think of from one month's end to another.'

Emma, eyes widening slightly in astonishment at his unusually abrupt tone, immediately changed the subject, but his mind did not move with the flow of the conversation. He dwelt on what he had said, and knew that it had been a lie: he had been thinking of Frank Churchill more and more often of late.

Even at the thought of that young upstart's arrival, all of his old fears about Emma being duped and stolen away by some unworthy young man had resurfaced from their dormancy with a vengeance.

He glanced at her now as she was animatedly relating the description their youngest niece's new antics from Isabella's latest letter. Could he perhaps warn her, put her on her guard?

He dismissed the possibility almost immediately. No, it was best not to risk putting the idea in her head. She might, out of sheer obstinacy and pique at his interference, encourage Churchill.

No, all he could do was wait and watch and do what he always had done: simply be her partial old friend.


	41. An Open Temper

**A/N:** Sorry for the delay. No real excuses since exams are over, but heaps of free time doesn't necessarily equate to productivity, unfortunately.

Still, hope you enjoy this one – let me know what you think!

* * *

Thankfully Jane Fairfax's arrival in Highbury took everyone's minds off Frank Churchill, at least for the time being. He had paid his call, and had been pleasantly surprised to find that Emma and Harriet had already been there. Perhaps this was a sign that Emma had finally overcome the childish rivalry which had always caused her to distance herself from the other young woman in the past. Perhaps the two would finally become friends.

He was heartened that Emma's first words to him about Jane Fairfax this time were praising her beauty and elegance. She usually began by deprecating the other girl's coldness and reserve (which he had never quite seen; a little shyness, perhaps, and whatever reserve there was which arose from discretion).

He had once told Emma that her dislike arose from the consciousness that Jane Fairfax was just the sort of accomplished young woman Emma herself would like to be but wasn't, because she had never applied herself, and he was glad not to be obliged to repeat the observation or something like it. It had been vehemently refuted at the time, and even though it had appeared to bounce off her (as most of his criticisms did), he suspected he might have hurt her feelings, and he did not wish to do so again without necessary cause. Even if Emma were not as accomplished as Jane Fairfax, she was more open and engaging, more lively, more at ease in company; and devotion to her family and friends was not something she had to learn from Jane Fairfax. In all essentials, he would not wish to see her changed.

A couple of evenings later, at the dinner party at Hartfield which the Woodhouses were holding in honour of Miss Fairfax's return to Highbury, he had no reason to be concerned. Emma's kinder feelings towards Miss Fairfax seemed to be prevailing, and she evidently took pains to talk away her diffidence and make her feel welcome.

He had been watching them conversing from the other side of the room when he thought he heard Emma say the name "Churchill". Immediately he sought out and joined Mr. Woodhouse, who thankfully was sitting by the fire, far out of earshot of the two young women.

'It is pleasant to see Miss Fairfax in Highbury again after so long, is it not, sir?' he said as he sat.

'Indeed,' said Mr. Woodhouse, 'she is a very civil and pretty-spoken girl. And she does not speak too quick as young women are all too apt to do. However, Miss Bates has been telling me that her health is very delicate. I am very much afraid that she ought to have worn a more substantial shawl before exposing herself to such weather as this, even for so short a time as when she was getting into and out of our carriage. Did you know, Miss Bates told me she only ate a very small slice of mutton for her supper yesterday?'

Mr. Woodhouse continued speaking, making tenuous connections between poor appetite and susceptibility to colds and the dreadful things colds could lead to, but although Mr. Knightley tried, he could not concentrate. He continued to watch Emma and Miss Fairfax out of the corner of his eye, and though he knew it to be impossible from where he sat, his ears were still pricked to try and hear their conversation.

_Why _had Emma brought up Mr. Churchill? He knew that Miss Fairfax had been acquainted with the young man in Weymouth – surely Emma was just making conversation by asking questions about her holiday, and the people she had met there? Surely she would have asked about the Campbells and Dixons as well, had he listened a little longer. Surely she was not asking for the sole purpose of finding out from Miss Fairfax what sort of a man Frank Churchill was.

He resolved to push the niggling worry out of his mind, and simply be glad that she was making an effort with Jane Fairfax. He was sure that such a friendship would be good for her – she could learn some things from Miss Fairfax in addition to teaching her; it would be a more equal friendship than her relationship with Harriet. It was in her best interests, and that was what he had always had at heart. After all, he was a partial old friend.


	42. Fanciful

**A/N:** Sorry for the delay – I know what I have to write, it's just getting down to writing it that is the problem - which is annoying, considering how much time I now have to write. Anyway, tell me what you think!

* * *

If Mr. Knightley had always taken it upon himself to say a word of admonishment when he saw Emma doing wrong, he had also taken it upon himself to praise her when she did right. Accordingly, the next day at Hartfield, he was expressing his approbation of her treatment of Jane Fairfax. 'I am sure Miss Fairfax must have found the evening pleasant, Emma. You left nothing undone. I was glad you made her play so much, for having no instrument at her grandmother's, it must have been a real indulgence.'

'I am happy you approved,' Emma said, smiling playfully, 'but I hope I am not often deficient in what is due to guests at Hartfield.'

Mr. Knightley almost rolled his eyes, and tried not to smile. Although Mr. Woodhouse immediately began to praise Emma's qualities as a hostess (before lamenting that she would be so liberal with the muffins, which after all, could not be good for health in excess), he knew that the remark was directed at him. Often in the past – in fact, so often that her subsequent reply had lost its meaning – he had praised her somehow, and her saucy reply had been the lament 'Always with the tone of surprise!'. He suspected that her comment was said in the same spirit.

He would not give her the satisfaction of repeatedly trying to convince her that his praise was sincere. 'No,' he said, 'you are not often deficient, either in manner or comprehension. I think you understand me, therefore.'

Knowing she had been beaten, she let it pass, continuing the conversation. 'Miss Fairfax is reserved.'

He frowned slightly. Was she saying that her attempts to break through the other girl's shell had been unsuccessful? He roused himself to say something to encourage Emma to keep trying. 'You will soon overcome all that part of her reserve which ought to be overcome, all which has its foundation in diffidence.'

Emma looked rather skeptical. 'You think her diffident. I do not see it.'

His heart sank. Did this mean that Emma and Miss Fairfax were not becoming friends as he had hoped? This time the fault could not be all placed upon Emma, for he had seen for himself her efforts with Jane Fairfax the previous night. Where before he could have wished Emma more friendly to the other girl, now he could wish Jane Fairfax less reserved.

'My dear Emma,' he said, moving to a chair closer to hers, 'you are not going to tell me, I hope, that you had not a pleasant evening?'

Emma laughed, flippantly, sarcastically. 'Oh no; I was pleased with my own perseverance in asking questions and amused to think how little information I obtained.'

'I am disappointed,' he said, and he was. But even as he turned to give his attention to what Mr. Woodhouse was saying, something in her words struck him. She had been asking questions to obtain information – and he had heard her mention the name 'Churchill'. There could no longer be any doubt as to the context in which she had asked the question.

Why was she so curious about that wretched young man? Why was she so eager to meet him? Had she formed the uncharacteristically girlish fancy that this mysterious stranger was the man she would one day marry? It would be unlike her, but why else would she show such an interest in his arrival? It was disproportionate to what even a dear friend of Mrs. Weston's would be expected to feel.

He would have to watch over her carefully, make sure that she didn't get carried away and let a foolish fancy blind her to the young man's real character. That would be disastrous, and he could not let it happen. After all, he was a partial old friend.


	43. Hearing the News

**A/N:** Wow, this is a ridiculously late update. Will try to work on this story more – in the meantime, tell me what you think of this installment!

* * *

After listening for a while to Emma and Mr. Woodhouse discussing the pork she had sent to Miss Bates (he fretting that it not be over-salted, and she assuring him that it would all be perfectly alright), he began to broach the real reason of his visit. 'Emma, I have a piece of news for you.' He smiled as he saw the curiosity immediately light up her eyes. 'You like news, I know – and I heard an article in my way here that I think will interest you.'

His smile widened at her enthusiasm to hear it, and he couldn't help feeling amused. He knew the sting of her mishaps with Elton had rather worn off, but if she knew what the news was, he knew she would not have been so eager to hear it. 'What is it?' she asked him. 'Why do you smile so? Where did you hear it – at Randalls?'

When he realized what news she had been hoping for – indeed, what news from Randalls could concern anything other than that wretched Frank Churchill? – his smile abruptly faded. 'No, not at Randalls,' he said, annoyed. 'I have not been near Randalls–'

He was interrupted at that moment by the door being thrown open to admit visitors in the form of Miss Bates and Miss Fairfax. After the greetings were over, he had hoped that he could tell Emma the news he had heard, but when Miss Bates launched into effusive thanks to Mr. Woodhouse for the pork, he knew he had lost his moment.

If anyone would have heard the news, Miss Bates would have. And sure enough, wedged in after the pork, there it was. 'Such a beautiful hindquarter! Have you heard the news? Mr. Elton is going to be married.'

He watched Emma carefully and bit back a smile when he saw her start and blush a little. 'There is my news,' he said, still trying not to smile. 'I thought it would interest you.'

She glared at him before looking away quickly, her face a little more pink than before.

Perhaps it was a good thing that his words seemed to turn Miss Bates' attention onto him, for he knew that if she had observed Emma she would have innocently commented on her flushed face and drawn attention to it without meaning to be spiteful or tactless. 'But where could you hear it?' she cried. 'Where could you possibly hear it, Mr. Knightley?' And then she launched into a long explanation of how not five minutes earlier – or perhaps it was ten – she had heard the news from Mrs. Cole, who had heard it from Mr. Cole.

'I was with Mr. Cole on business not long ago,' he said when she paused to take a breath (this was the only way in which one could carry a reciprocal conversation with Miss Bates), and then he explained how Cole had only just received the letter when he had arrived, and had shown it to him.

After some general exclamations at this, the topic of conversation moved back to pork again, but he had hardly let his mind wander before they were back to Elton's letter, and his firsthand knowledge of it was appealed to.

He obliged. 'It was short, merely to announce – but cheerful, exulting, of course.' He couldn't help sneaking a glance at Emma, trying not to smile again. She alone knew _exactly_ why Mr. Elton was so keen to rub it in her face that he had found someone else almost as rich as her so soon after he had stopped pursuing her. 'He "had been so fortunate as to" – I forget the precise words – one has no business to remember them. The information was, as you state, that he was going to be married to a Miss Hawkins. By his style, I should imagine it just settled.'

And thankfully that chapter had closed. Elton and Harriet would have no more trouble from Emma, and Emma would have no more trouble from Elton. No, thankfully, now all he had to keep an eye on was Frank Churchill – after all, a partial old friend could only deal with so much all at once.


	44. Hearing the News Over and Over

**A/N:** We'll finally meet Frank in the next one. For now, please tell me what you think of this chapter!

* * *

If Mr. Knightley had thought Mr. Elton irritating in the extreme when he had been dangling after Emma, it was mild compared to his air of smug self-satisfaction when he returned to Highbury. He seemed to walk about town for no other reason than to receive the congratulations and teasing of everyone of his acquaintance, and basked in both equally.

Everywhere Mr. Knightley went, there Elton would be, eagerly telling anyone who would listen the story of his courtship of Miss Augusta Hawkins (had he mentioned that she had ten thousand pounds?). 'We were introduced at a ball in the Assembly rooms,' he was now telling the politely listening Westons, 'and almost from the first moment I think we both knew… I asked her to dance, and it happened to be the waltz…'

Mr. Knightley let his attention wander. He had heard this story too many times, from the accidental meeting in the street the next day, to the dinner at Mr. Green's and the party at Mrs. Brown's, with each meeting gaining significance in blushes and smiles. The story also gained in embellishment (and, he suspected, exaggeration) each time it was told. He wished he had left Randalls before Elton had arrived, for now he was stuck here until the whole long-winded story was finished. He just wished the topic of conversation could be changed from Elton's inane prattle.

'Speaking of new arrivals to Highbury,' Mr. Weston said finally, when Mr. Elton seemed to have finished, 'I'm delighted to say that my son Frank will be coming here tomorrow. I had a letter from him this morning, and it is a certain thing; he will be staying with us for two weeks.'

Suddenly Mr. Knightley found he wouldn't have minded so much listening to the merits of Mr. Elton's precious Augusta.

'He will arrive tomorrow afternoon at four,' Mr. Weston continued, oblivious to the less than enthusiastic faces of his two visitors – Elton was reluctant to have attention taken away from him and his great love story, and Mr. Knightley could only think of Emma and worry. 'Never fear, I will bring him around to Donwell to meet you, after we've been to Hartfield.'

Mr. Knightley almost laughed. Weston was speaking as if reassuring him that he wouldn't miss out on a treat. If only he could have known that Mr. Knightley would have been happy never to set eyes on the young man… still, he supposed that it wouldn't hurt to meet the young man and form an idea of his character – or rather, confirm the ideas he had already formed from that man's prolonged absence, and simpering letters.

Surely Emma would see right through him, and wouldn't stand for any of his nonsense. Certainly, she had been completely mistaken in Elton, but surely she would have learned from the experience. Unless young Frank Churchill were rather more adept at charm and flattery… in which case he himself would have to serve as her judgment and try to prevent her from getting hurt. It was the least he could do; after all, he was a partial old friend.


	45. Faith

**A/N:** Please review with any thoughts! And yes, you guessed right - Mr. Woodhouse is to Mr. Knightley, as 'poor little Henry' is to Emma.

* * *

Mr. Knightley hated Frank Churchill.

The young man was handsome, polite, seemingly sensible and possessed the same cheerful amiability and desire to make himself pleasant as his father. He was dressed neatly, and looked well-groomed and yet not as if he spent too much time and effort on his appearance; and as far as his conversation went, Mr. Knightley was forced to conclude that Emma had been right in her prediction that he would be able to talk and listen well on many varied subjects as suited the one with whom he conversed. From what his father said about those whom they had visited before coming to Donwell, his son had already charmed his way into the good books of Mrs. and Miss Bates, Miss Fairfax, Mr. Woodhouse and Emma.

Mr. Knightley _hated_ Frank Churchill.

Still, he could not let Weston know or surmise that, so he must make some effort to talk to the young man. 'How did you find our friends at Hartfield?' he asked, as casually as he could manage. Well, if he had to talk to the upstart, he might as well piece together how matters stood.

Frank Churchill smiled. 'To answer your question in both senses, they were very well, and I liked them both very well. Mr. Woodhouse seems a kind old gentleman, and Miss Woodhouse is all that is charming and elegant.'

Mr. Knightley wondered if the sentiment was mutual, and then decided that he really did hate Frank Churchill.

It was just typical that the young man would turn out to be practically perfect. He was too good to be true though, Mr. Knightley was sure of it. There had to be something wrong with the man; he was too unnatural otherwise.

But then _why _was this bothering him so much? Surely he could trust Emma not to fall in love with someone who lacked principles, or neglected his duty – did he not have that much faith in her? Surely he did – Emma, for all her whims, and for all her impulsiveness, was sensible, after all. He knew that she had a solid head on her shoulders, and would not be blinded from detecting inward flaws by a glittering exterior.

But it was not just that… no matter who she married – be he the most exemplary of men – her marriage would take her away from Hartfield, from Highbury. Mr. Woodhouse would be desolate and alone, with nobody to cheer him, and that was something which Mr. Knightley could not countenance, and which he knew Emma would ultimately regret. And he could not have that. After all, he was a partial old friend.


	46. Ridiculous

**A/N:** Please review – hope you like!

* * *

The morning after Frank Churchill had called with his father at Hartfield, Donwell, and everywhere else in Highbury, it seemed, Mr. Knightley set out in some trepidation to see what the Woodhouses – or, more specifically, Emma – thought of the young man.

When he arrived at Hartfield only to be told that Emma was out walking with none other than the young man himself (albeit accompanied by Mrs. Weston), it was all he could do to make civil conversation with Mr. Woodhouse for the next half hour.

_She was just going out for a walk,_ he told himself firmly. Churchill had just happened along at that moment, with absolutely impeccable timing. Young wretch. But after all, it was perfectly proper; Mrs. Weston was there to chaperone them – _not_ that they needed chaperoning like a courting couple – and it was only natural for Emma to be civil and make an effort to get to know her dear friend's stepson.

Still there ought to be a limit to her benevolence in extending the hand of friendship to Churchill, surely? Just to check, he called at Hartfield the next morning as well, and was relieved to find Emma in. All was well then. And yet even as he settled to read the newspaper, he could not help asking dryly, 'Where is Mr. Churchill?'

She looked at him, surprised, perhaps at his tone which much as he tried to present as indifference seemed more like antagonistic, but real curiosity. If he had been hoping that she would answer something to the effect of _how would I know?_, he was disappointed. 'He has gone to London,' she said, and then added with a slight smile, 'He wanted to get his hair cut.'

So the young man would waste a whole day out of his – if the rumours were to be believed – hard-won two weeks at Highbury to ride to London and back simply for the sake of grooming himself! Before he could stop himself, he made a noise of disgust. 'Just the trifling, silly fellow I took him for!' he said, and then immediately regretted it. Emma had been watching him for his reaction, and he remembered all too clearly what their discussion had been like when he had last disparaged Frank Churchill.

He devoted himself to reading his newspaper, hoping she wouldn't take issue with his comment. Yet even as he prayed they would not quarrel, a small part of him wished they would, for then he could ask her _why_ she was so intent on defending that worthless young man.

Thankfully, however, she said no more about it, and her conversation was taken up by her self-concocted dilemma about what to do about the Coles' dinner party. 'It is utterly presumptuous of them to think of dictating the terms on which the superior families such as those of Hartfield, Donwell and Randalls may visit them,' she said, and he refrained from rolling his eyes with difficulty.

Sometimes he thought he would never understand Emma. Her objection to the Coles was that they were new money, and that their fortune had come from trade – and yet Mr. Weston, though the son of a gentleman, had had to make _his_ fortune from trade before he could purchase Randalls, upon which he had become worthy of her good opinion as well as her dear friend Miss Taylor's hand in marriage. Such was her attitude to Mr. Weston, and she had been quick to single out Harriet Smith, natural daughter of nobody knew whom, and yet she would shun the Coles, who were just as amiable and unpretentious.

'I intend to teach them a lesson by refusing their invitation when it arrives, and I hope you will do the same,' Emma continued.

He bit back a smile. 'Unfortunately, I have already sent my acceptance, so I suppose I will have to stick to my word like a gentleman, and _swallow my pride_ and _lower myself_ to attend what holds every promise to be a very enjoyable party among good friends.'

Emma looked taken aback. 'You have already sent your… you mean your invitation has already arrived?'

He raised an eyebrow. 'Of course; I got it two days ago, and I know the Westons did too.' Then he grinned, deciding to tease her a little, even though he knew (on Miss Bates' information – she had heard it from Mrs. Cole) that the Woodhouses _were_ going to receive an invitation as soon as the screen the Coles had ordered for Mr. Woodhouse had arrived. 'Then I suppose your problem is solved for you – the Coles have decided _not_ to be so presumptuous and rude as to extend their hospitality towards you.'

With a very great effort he held in his laughter as he saw the sour expression on her face at the thought of staying alone at Hartfield in solitary grandeur while everybody else enjoyed the party. He loved Emma, he really did, but partial old friend though he was, he thought that sometimes she could be just ridiculous.


	47. Fleeting Danger

**A/N:** Hope you like – please review and let me know!

* * *

After he had handed Miss Bates and Miss Fairfax out of his carriage and walked them up to the Coles' front door (Miss Fairfax was not in the best of health, and after some polite demurring and insisting, he had gotten Miss Bates to accept his plan of conveying them to the Coles' and back), he returned to wait for the Hartfield carriage which he could see coming up the drive.

Some moments later as he handed her out, Emma smiled up at him warmly. 'This is coming as you should do,' she said by way of greeting. 'Like a gentleman – I am quite glad to see you.'

He raised an eyebrow, amused. Usually she would tell him off for arriving in a way that was 'beneath' him. 'Thank you,' he said dryly. 'How lucky it is that we should arrive at the same moment; for, if we had met first in the drawing room I doubt whether you would have discerned me to be more of a gentleman than usual. You might not have distinguished how I came by my look or manner.'

'Yes, I should, I am sure I should,' she said, trying to keep a straight face. Then she proceeded to describe how his air of bravado and feigned indifference to what others might think of his mode of travel would give him away the second she saw him.

He was about to argue that the indifference was real and that nobody else except for Emma _cared_ how he arrived anywhere, when he realized that she was partially right. He probably did make it clear by his words or actions that he was indifferent to her opinion of his way of traveling, and that he was not ashamed, and she of course would have observed this. He smiled; for now, she had won, and though he might laugh and call her a nonsensical girl, in truth for some reason he was gratified that she observed him so closely and knew him so well.

Even when he saw Churchill approach her and eagerly strike up a conversation, his twinge of fear and doubt was lesser than usual. Surely Emma would not get caught up in a silly maiden's fancy and marry someone she hardly knew, even if he was charming. Surely she would wish to know her future partner's faults as well as his merits (and Frank Churchill, even if he had shown an infuriating lack of perceptible faults, had shown no merits either).

Surely something as fleeting as Churchill's long overdue visit to Highbury could not displace _his_ place in Emma's affections. After all, _he_ was a partial old friend.


	48. Safe

**A/N:** Started uni again and it's horribly busy, and here's the evidence – have started writing again! Let me know what you think of this one.

* * *

By the time everyone was seated at the table, some of Mr. Knightley's good mood had worn off; he was seated almost as far as he could be from Emma while still having her in his vision, and she just happened to be seated next to Frank Churchill. Throughout dinner, whenever he could find a break in the polite conversation of his nearest neighbours, he looked over at them discreetly, but to no avail. He could not hear anything of what they said, save that they seemed animated, yet speaking in low, hushed voices, as if discussing something for their ears alone.

_What _could they be talking about so earnestly? And why so quietly? Was Churchill flirting with her? She was looking pleased at what he said, and was responding to his comments in a similar manner to his. Mr. Knightley's face darkened.

The end of the meal couldn't come soon enough, for then at least Emma and Churchill would be separated, if only for a time. _Yes, look now,_ he thought viciously, as Churchill's eyes followed Emma out of the room, _for when we retreat to the drawing room _I _will be the one sitting next to her._

If only that plan hadn't been thwarted as well. Mr. Cole and Mr. Weston, who were engrossed in conversation about some council matter were anxious for his opinion, and Churchill had taken the opportunity to beg their pardon for retreating to join the ladies early as he had nothing to add to such a discussion. For the next fifteen minutes Mr. Knightley was stuck listening to talk of fencing disputes, moving paths and renovating tenants' cottages when all he wanted to do was be with Emma and keep her safe.

_Why_ did this always happen to him? First Elton, now Churchill – if anything this time it was worse, for Emma herself seemed taken in by the fellow, and Mr. Knightley knew he couldn't trust her to rebuff any advances made.

After what seemed an age the other gentlemen finally made the decision to join the ladies – and Mr. Churchill – in the drawing room, and just as Mr. Knightley had feared, Churchill was sitting next to Emma, saying something to her which made her laugh. He was contemplating walking right over and insinuating himself into their conversation uninvited when this drastic measure was rendered unnecessary by Churchill's leaving Emma to say a word or two to Miss Fairfax. Well, it was about time he exchanged pleasantries with someone else – he had been inappropriately focused on Emma alone the whole evening.

When he saw Mrs. Weston take the chair beside Emma, he smiled in satisfaction. Now Churchill could not regain his former place, and Emma would be safe for the moment. Though upon noticing Churchill's defection he had been hoping to take the seat himself, he didn't begrudge its loss – Emma's safety was Emma's safety, and that was all he wanted. After all, he was a partial old friend.


	49. Enamoured

**A/N:** Please review!

* * *

Emma was in deep conversation with Mrs. Weston, and for some reason they kept looking over at him. He tried to pretend not to notice, roving his gaze over the other guests, trying to locate Churchill (his aim was to always keep that man within his line of vision). He saw the young man now sitting by Jane Fairfax; however, it seemed Miss Fairfax's reserve was universal and not simply for Emma. Churchill seemed to be speaking twenty words for every one of hers. He smiled in grim satisfaction; perhaps it would do the young man good to be coldly rebuffed for once – he needed to realise that a winning smile and charming manners could not beguile everyone.

He just wished Emma did not have to be one of the beguiled.

He was still too far away to hear more than the tone of her voice as she was speaking to Mrs. Weston (though of course he wasn't _trying_ to listen), but he could tell that as Emma's words grew more eager, she grew more agitated. When, unable to help himself any longer, he glanced over and met her gaze, he could not read the expression of her eyes; she gave him a strained smile before looking quickly away.

Perhaps fortunately, before he was tempted to inconspicuously move closer and eavesdrop in a most ungentlemanly manner, Mr. Cole approached Emma and seemed to be soliciting her to play on their new pianoforte. Emma smiled modestly – though he could tell she was pleased at being asked first before any other young lady – but before she could give the acceptance which was no doubt forthcoming, Frank Churchill appeared out of nowhere to add his unneeded and entirely too eager entreaties (they were audible from where Mr. Knightley was standing).

If he could have wished for any particular reaction to this from Emma, it would have been a cold set-down which would hopefully have taken the wind out of Churchill's sails; however, when her cheerful reply of 'Very well, I will play' came, he supposed he should be thankful that it was addressed to Mr. Cole, and that Churchill's pretty speech had elicited no real response from her.

Such thoughts were put aside for the moment as she began to play, however. Emma's performance, such as it was, could not but be pleasing. Although he knew her reputation for accomplishment was rather higher than she deserved, she was at least well aware of her own limitations and played only what she could do credit to, and as she was well able to accompany her own voice, the overall effect was a pleasant one.

Until the song was ruined by Mr. Churchill adding his own – utterly unneeded – voice to Emma's. He appeared to be the only person who found this interruption, this blatant stealing of Emma's limelight, rude and selfish. The Westons, he noticed, exchanged a look of delighted satisfaction, and everyone else seemed much struck by the picture the beautiful young woman and the handsome young man made as they sang together.

After the song was over, Emma smiled up at the wretch and said laughingly, 'Well, Mr. Churchill, it seems your secret is out – now we all know that you have a delightful voice, and a thorough knowledge of music!'

The young man laughed in affected modesty, and then weakly protested. 'Oh no, not at all. I know nothing of the matter, and have no voice at all.'

Mr. Knightley's lip curled slightly. If the young man really _were _modest about his own musical abilities – and damn him, it had to be admitted that his voice_ was _good – he would not have put himself forward, especially not uninvited in the middle of Emma's performance.

Well, at least Emma had left him to his denials of any talent and hadn't bothered to contradict him out of his self-deprecation. She was not then so far gone – but the very fact of her cheerful acceptance of his insinuation into her performance, her utter lack of pique at his stealing her thunder (for however well-hidden, he was sure _he_, who had known her all her life, would have recognized the signs even if her manners were impeccable) worried him.

Were the Westons right in their suspicions? Was Emma becoming enamoured of Churchill? He wasn't sure, but one thing he _was_ sure about was that Churchill was not sincerely attached to Emma – he seemed more in love with himself than anyone else, and his sole aim seemed to be to simper and smile and make love to everyone and cement his position as Highbury's favourite.

If such was indeed the case, then Mr. Knightley would have to keep a careful eye on Emma and make sure she did not get hurt. After all, he was a partial old friend.


	50. Sabotage

**A/N:** Woefully delayed update, I know. Will try and do better in future. Please review with your thoughts on this installment!

* * *

He listened attentively to Miss Fairfax's performance with an enjoyment that stemmed both from her real proficiency and from the fact that there was no Frank Churchill ruining the performance. Presently, once Miss Fairfax had finished her first song, he made his periodic glance in Emma's direction – after all, it would be well for him always to be aware of whether or not Churchill was making up to her – and caught her eye. She smiled, and he rose to quietly seat himself in the empty chair by her (now how had Churchill missed that?).

'She sings and plays very well, does she not?' said Emma quietly, and pleased that she was praising the other young woman unprompted, Mr. Knightley agreed to it, perhaps rather more warmly than he would have done ordinarily.

Yet oddly enough, something told him Emma was not quite pleased with his answer. However the next second he thought he must have imagined it, for she was commending him perfectly naturally on his kindness towards Miss Fairfax and Miss Bates in lending them his carriage – though she was watching him quite intently, he thought, a little puzzled. 'It was no trouble,' was all he said, however.

Their conversation dwelt for some moments on Emma's wish that she could make the Hartfield carriage similarly useful (though he could see that Mr. Woodhouse would not want James put-to for such a purpose, he honoured Emma for having the desire regardless), before the topic turned to the pianoforte which had been gifted to Miss Fairfax.

'This present of the Campbells is very kindly given,' said Emma.

'Yes,' he agreed, 'but they would have done better had they given her notice of it. Surprises are foolish things. The pleasure is not enhanced, and the inconvenience is often considerable.' The pianoforte – such an extravagant gift! – and the mystery of its origin were making Jane Fairfax the object of much curiosity and some impertinent conjecture. Surely she would rather have dispensed with that?

For some reason Emma looked highly pleased with his answer, which struck him as odd, for this was just the kind of point upon which they would usually embark on one of their bantering debates. (He could see it now: 'You know that is not true, Mr. Knightley – did you not enjoy the Christmas present I gave you the better for it being a surprise? I am sure if you had known what it was, you would have spent sleepless nights worrying about how I would distort your features.' –'Ah, but Emma, remember the present I gave you? Perhaps if I had given you notice of it, you would have been able to inform me that it would be redundant, and I could have gotten you something more to the purpose.' And so on.)

They had been quietly conversing while Miss Fairfax was singing her second song, and he noticed that her voice was beginning to show strain, especially around the high parts. He was relieved for her when the song ended, for he had been afraid that her voice would give way entirely.

However, it seemed nobody else had noticed, for they were all clamouring for one more song, and Frank Churchill – thoughtless, selfish Frank Churchill – said, 'I think you could manage this one without effort; the first part is so trifling – the strength of the song falls upon the second.'

_Oh, of course Churchill would enjoy that,_ thought Mr. Knightley angrily. _What an opportunity for him, to display the 'strength of the song'!_ 'That fellow thinks of nothing but showing off his own voice,' he said warmly, for the moment unguarded. 'This must not be.'

He managed to alert Miss Bates, who was passing, to the facts of the matter, and thankfully, her concern for her niece helped her to override everyone's objections to prevent the third song.

Mr. Knightley could not help feeling an unholy glee in having foiled Frank Churchill's plans to show off his singing. Hopefully Emma would see the selfishness in the young man's actions, in his attempting to push Miss Fairfax too far if only it would show his talents to advantage.

Perhaps this was the way to let Emma see Frank Churchill for what he really was – instead of attempting to reason with her and telling her truths as he saw them, he could facilitate her discovering it for herself. It would not _precisely_ be sabotage of Churchill's courtship (if courtship it even was); it would be a way of keeping Emma safe, and he would do that at all costs. After all, he was a partial old friend.


End file.
